Scenes From Early Life (32 page)

I had been nominated by the gang to negotiate a price for the return of Iqtiar’s shoes. I was the youngest, and that was my task. I was pushed to the front. In my hand, I was gripping one of the wedding shoes. Pultoo had thoroughly briefed me in what I was to say.

‘You must pay me off!’ I shouted. ‘Iqtiar-mama! I have your shoes. You must pay me before I give them to you. Do you understand?’

‘I understand, Saadi,’ Iqtiar said, in his bare feet. Behind him, his brothers and uncles gathered, giggling. Iqtiar was keeping a straight face. But I knew he was not cross. I knew he was expecting exactly this exchange. ‘How much do you want for my shoes?’

Pultoo had told me what to ask. ‘I want a thousand taka!’ I said. ‘Not one taka less. One thousand taka.’

‘Oh, that is nonsense,’ Pultoo said. ‘For one thousand taka I can buy two hundred shoes, better than those old things. I will give you twenty taka, and that is my final offer.’

‘No! No! No!’ I shouted. Behind me, my brother and sisters, my aunts and cousins, all Nadira’s relatives, were laughing and pointing.

‘I knew you shouldn’t have thrown paint over Saadi,’ Pultoo called. ‘He is going to drive a hard bargain.’

‘Twenty taka!’

‘No!’ I shouted.

‘Thirty!’

‘No!’

‘Forty!’

‘No, no, no, no, no!’

‘He’s good, this little one,’ someone murmured behind me.

‘Fifty!’ Iqtiar said, with an air of finality.

‘No!’ I said. ‘No, no, no, no, no. One thousand taka, or nothing!’

‘Come on, Saadi,’ Pultoo said, poking me in the back. In fact, he had agreed that I would refuse to take any money until Iqtiar reached fifty taka, and then I would give way and take the money. That would be mine. In the event, I was quite delirious with the excitement of standing firm in the negotiation. I saw no reason to stop at fifty. It did not occur to me that the whole business had been squared with Iqtiar.

‘Very well then,’ Iqtiar said. He folded his arms. He glowered down at me. He turned to his supporters, bewailing this tiny monster. ‘What can I do?’ he said. ‘How can a man negotiate with a monster, a terror, a pocket financial genius, a merchant-king three feet tall? How is it possible? Very well then,’ Iqtiar-uncle said. ‘Sixty.’

From behind, Pultoo or somebody else gave me a firm shake about the head. That was good enough. Iqtiar handed over the sixty taka to me as everyone cheered and applauded and laughed. As the money went into my palm, the left shoe was taken away from me, and the right from Shibli, and Iqtiar slipped them on his bare feet. Around us, in the foyer of the hotel, people who were not invited, passers-by, complete strangers, applauded. The whole hotel glittered with light and flowers, flame and mirrors. Proceeding into the hall where the marriage was to take place, I felt at the centre of the marvellous event. It was time for Iqtiar to get married.

10.

The Kazi was inside; he was somebody that Nana knew. In a beautiful black sherwani and cap, he sat and waited patiently, smiling. I knew he had published books about religion; it was an honour, Mother had said, that he was conducting Nadira’s wedding for her, and I should take care not to misbehave in front of him. He had seen the chaos of the shoe-theft before, many times, and he smiled as both sides came laughing into the room to take their places. There were two assistants with him. One was carrying a marriage register, for official purposes; the other, the Mulavi, had nothing with him. He carried what he needed in his head.

There were some official transactions to be got through. The Kazi went to Nadira, and asked her what she thought; he went to Iqtiar, now flushed but shod, and asked him the same. But you know what a wedding is like. You have seen how the veil is draped over the pair of them, a mirror before them; you know how the groom looks in the mirror and says what he feels on first seeing his bride; you know that he usually says that it is as if he has seen the moon. The Mulavi stood, and he said what he had to say: ‘Enter the garden, you and your wives,’ he said, his tone ringing out in the room, ‘in beauty and rejoicing.’ You could not help seeing how very thin the Mulavi was. His eyes were enormous in his face.

11.

Nana rose when he saw my father at the reception, and came towards him. For the first time since Nadira’s wedding had begun, they embraced. Nana had chosen his moment: he wanted to embrace my father in front of everybody. The reception was held at Iqtiar’s family house. They were English teachers, and their house was in the English colony in Dacca. Behind high walls, the events in the street that we had seen on driving from the wedding to the reception retreated a little bit.

‘Look,’ Mrs Khandekar said, to one of her friends. ‘Look, my old friend is making it up with his son-in-law.’

‘Making it up?’ she said. ‘How?’

‘They fell out. There was a terrible falling-out, not between those two, but between brothers-in-law. Or so I believe. They were dividing a house between them, and some people are not made to divide a single house. It was terrible at the time, and I don’t believe they have spoken for two years.’

‘But it was not those two who fell out, was it?’ the friend said. ‘If he fell out with his brother-in-law, shouldn’t he make it up with that brother-in-law?’

‘I don’t know that that will happen,’ Mrs Khandekar said. ‘But there we are.’

On a dais at the far end of the room, music began. It was a small group; players on harmonium, tabla and sitar. They sat cross-legged against fat red cushions, concentrating on their work. I did not recognize what they were playing – it was a wedding song, I now assume, so I would not have heard it before. But I recognized them. Two out of the three of them were Nadira’s music teachers. There was the tall one and the short one; they were the ones Nana’s family treated with such respect, standing up and saying farewell when they left for the day. On the dais, Altaf and Amit practised their art; the tabla pattered like rain, in gusts and spurts; the harmonium gave its thoughtful song; and the sitar reflectively punctuated the sound, like drops of water in a still pond. I ran up to the dais, knowing who they were, expecting that they would greet me. But they continued to play on the dais, which was draped in blue velvet. Only the harmonium player raised his face and looked at me. He smiled – he nearly smiled.

Nana was leading my father and mother up to the top table. ‘Look, look,’ Mrs Khandekar said. She always enjoyed a dramatic scene, and Nana making a place of special dignity for my mother and father was satisfying all her longings in this respect. But then there was a flurry of attention from the other end of the room, and people could be seen to be backing away, to be making room, to be standing if they had been sitting, and reversing if they had been standing. Nana abandoned my mother and father where they were. Who was it? Some dignitary, some judge, some painter, some poet, some film-maker, some professor, some politician? Something was drawing Nana away from the scene, but what it was nobody could tell through the crush. Somewhere in there, somebody was sparing time from his office, his fame, his celebrity, congratulating Nadira and Iqtiar, finding a kind word for Pultoo, shaking the hands of his colleagues and acquaintances. Nana hurried over, knowing his obligations.

‘You will always remember today, won’t you?’ an old woman said to me. I could tell she was trying to be good with children. But I was more interested in the food, which was now arriving. Bowls of rice, of meat in a rich sauce, of whole fish beautifully decorated and roasted, plates of pickles, more meat, and then the vegetables: potol piled high, okra, potato and cauliflower dishes, yellow like a meadow flower, biriani, stews, curries, plates of dry grilled meat, everything you could imagine. My mother and father were seated at the best table – I could see that my mother was flushed with embarrassment and pleasure. My father, upright, was embarrassed and pleased in a different way. And it now seemed as if the drama of the scene had hardly begun. Nana’s obeisance before his daughter and son-in-law, the interruption of the arriving dignitary, those had merely been prefatory to the large drama of reconciliation playing itself out at Nadira’s wedding. Then, all of a sudden, there was Boro-mama, coming towards them. Mother and Father had not seen him. ‘Look,’ I said to Sunchita, but she had already seen him, and was saying the same thing to Sushmita.

‘Look . . .’

Boro-mama took a dish of rice from one waiter, and made a gesture to another, bearing a dish of meat, to stand by him. He came to stand behind my mother and father, and I could see him saying something, quite gently. I found my hand being taken, and I looked up. It was Sharmin-aunty, wearing a vivid silver sari. On the top table, Father looked about in surprise; but on his face was an expression of pleasure and relief. Boro-mama did something very beautiful: he served my father rice, just as a waiter would, and then my mother. He handed the bowl of rice back to the waiter, and then served them both, first my father, then my mother, with the meat. He had the air of someone so unconscious of his stance, so natural in his gesture, that I did not realize almost everyone in the room was watching what he was doing. My father stood up and embraced Boro-mama. He was not an embracing man, my father, but he knew when an embrace was called for. And then I knew that everyone in the room had been watching, because the near-silence that had fallen was now broken, and everyone started talking again.

12.

Nadira-aunty and her new husband left Dacca two days later. I had never been to Dacca airport before. Perhaps I was so excited at the prospect of going there that I did not fully understand that I would never see Nadira-aunty again. This time I would get to see an aeroplane up close.

I did not know how far Sheffield was from Dacca. I knew only that it was near London, which I had seen in pictures in Nana’s album. I had also seen pictures of England in a school book, from which my sisters learnt English. It was called
The
Radiant Way
, and its heroes, Sushmita had told me, pointing to the pictures, were Jack and Matt, boys in ties and shorts.

I had heard stories about planes from my friend Rashid. He had an uncle named Younus, who lived and worked in Dubai. Neither Rashid nor I knew where Dubai was, nor had we seen any photograph. But many presents had come for Rashid from Dubai, carried on aeroplanes. Two-in-one tape recorders, walkie-talkie phones, tiger-faced kombol, golden tablecloths and dried dates: all these had come from Dubai, carried by Rashid’s Younus-mama on an aeroplane. One day, Rashid came to my house with a toy gun. He owned up that he did not care for it and its terrible noise. He much preferred the wooden pistol he had, like mine.

Another time, Rashid’s Younus-mama presented his family with a large jar of water. Rashid told me it was holy water, from Mecca. I was awestruck, and afterwards asked my mother what holy water was.

She said, ‘Rubbish. Who said it was holy water?’

‘Rashid,’ I said.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘if Rashid gives you any, don’t drink it.’

Rashid was a boy who liked to boast, and he also showed me chocolates that had been handed out on the aeroplane to his uncle, and a pen bearing a picture of the plane. Rashid said it was the same plane that he himself had seen. Though nobody, Rashid said, could go near the plane, he had gone near it, gone with his father.

‘How could they let you near the plane?’ I asked.

Not only did Rashid have an uncle who travelled to Dubai, he also had a relation who worked at Dacca airport – a military official. ‘He took us,’ Rashid said airily.

I was eaten up with envy and longing. I wanted to see if it was the same plane that was depicted on the pen. I longed to see the plane. But mostly I longed to possess the pen with a picture of the plane on it.

‘Can I come to see the planes with you?’ I had said.

‘My father says you need to have a big man to be allowed to go in,’ Rashid said. ‘Do you have an uncle in the military, by any chance?’

He knew the answer. ‘No,’ I said.

‘I don’t think you can go,’ Rashid said. ‘I believe you need a big man as an uncle to be allowed to go inside, to go close to the plane.’

‘Acha,’ I said, agreeing coldly. I did not want to discuss this any longer. I was sad, and ashamed to be sad, that I did not have any uncle who was in the military.

But now I was going to see the planes, without the help of any big man as my uncle. I was going to see them because Nadira-aunty was going away. We went to Nana’s house, and there, upstairs, Nadira was finishing her packing. There were three big brown leather suitcases.

I knew that Nadira had bought many new clothes. She was wearing a new dark blue sari – my favourite colour for her to wear – and I reached out and touched the hem. ‘You like this colour on me, Saadi?’ she said. ‘You like this navy blue?’

I nodded. I did not know why the colour was called ‘navy blue’. But Nadira always looked at her most beautiful when she wore this colour. I did not understand why. When I wore shorts of dark blue, I did not like the way it made my legs look very dark. I preferred to wear white or grey shorts, or sometimes even red. But that was my personal preference.

Nadira was placing books in the suitcase to take with her. I recognized a collection of songs by Tagore. I had seen it many times on top of the harmonium. In it was a song I loved, a song called ‘We Are All Kings’; it was the only song that Nadira-aunty ever let me sing with her.

‘Are you taking the harmonium?’ I asked Nadira.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It is too heavy.’

‘Iqtiar-mama says he is going to buy a new one for you, Nadira,’ my mother said, referring to Nadira’s new husband. ‘I heard him say so last night.’

‘Oh, I know,’ Nadira said. ‘He is so sweet. But all the same . . .’

‘You can’t help wanting to take your own harmonium,’ Nani said. ‘I understand.’

And that meant a lot to Nani, since the harmonium had been given to Nadira as a present by Nana, quite out of the blue, on her sixteenth birthday.

‘Well,’ Nadira said, ‘what is done is done. I can’t take everything, and Iqtiar is going to buy me a new harmonium when we get to Sheffield. It won’t be the same, but the harmoniums in England might be good in their own way.’