by Shabnam Nadiya

The hood of this rickshaw was low and every time it went over a bit of uneven road she bumped her head. Shaila wondered why there wasn’t a standard measurement for the rickshaws. So that they would all feel the same when you got on them. Each rickshaw, Shaila mused wryly, felt different. Like the backs of the rickshaw pullers as they sat hunched in their seats pedaling ahead. Not that she had felt any of their backs. Merely seen them. She wondered how much of her life was spent watching the backsides of rickshaw pullers. Her view was restricted by the rickshaw hood; it was difficult to see what was going on outside or even where she was, and so much more easier to just look at the bit she could see ahead – usually the backside of the rickshaw puller. To the office and back. Every time she went out of the house by herself. That was what she saw. Thin, broad, dark, light, white, brown, covered, uncovered, shirt, undershirt, gamcha, well muscled or all knobbly with the spinal bones running down the length of the torso. Her view of the world.
   She thought of what she was going to cook for dinner tonight. There was some fresh river bred ilish in the fridge and yesterday’s vegetables but mother was allergic to ilish. Did she have anything hidden away in the deep-fridge she could serve her mother-in-law? She’d have to pretend that she’d just cooked it. Mother didn’t eat ‘old’ food; despite the fact that properly doctored she could never identify the ‘old food’. Old food, old fool. Shaila felt ashamed of her thoughts. No, her mother-in-law was much better than other mothers-in-law. Look at Maisha. She was never allowed to go anywhere with her husband. Wherever they went they had to take along at least one nephew or niece. Maisha’s mother-in-law didn’t like her daughters-in-law to behave selfishly – and made pretty sure that the daughters-in-law never got the chance to behave selfishly. No, mother wasn’t like that. Of course they didn’t have nephews or nieces (or children for that matter). Still, she encouraged Amin to take Shaila out, for the two of them to go places. Of course, in three years of marriage Shaila had never gotten to see the sea—after all, mother couldn’t be left alone in Dhaka by herself what with her blood pressure and all, and somehow she didn’t much relish the idea of taking mother along to the beach… well. No, but things could have been worse.
   “Turn left here”, Shaila instructed the rickshaw. Almost home. Fortunate that she had found a job so near her home or she could never have managed. Now there was tea and a late afternoon snack to prepare, mother’s medicine, reminding the maid to heat the water for mother’s ablutions, a simple dinner, breakfast for tomorrow morning, arranging for mother’s and the servant’s lunch, mother’s medication for the day, packed lunches for herself and her husband and then finally blessedly the day would be done. To rest. Another day gone.
   Amin swore inside his head. The scooter’s engine had stalled. The man got out and cranked whatever they cranked on these occasions. Amin felt impatient. He had left the office behind, loosening his tie and shirt collar, but it was as if he wasn’t out of the office until he had passed all the traffic and the people and the shouting and the auto fumes, not until he had reached home. In he walked through the door and looked for Shaila (although she was late sometimes) and heard the thin murmur of his mother’s voice reciting the Quran – and his day was done. Now here he had to sit getting more and more sweaty and irritable……he had worked worked worked all day, didn’t he deserve a bit of rest?
   It was another hour before he got home. As soon as he walked in the house his mother called out, “Where have you been, Amin? We’ve been worried.” Amin mumbled something to his mother as he passed her in the drawing room and went into his bedroom utterly exhausted. Shaila came to him. “Tea?” She asked. Amin looked at his wife. The pale beads of sweat ringing her upper lip looked tasty. “What are you doing?” He asked. “Cooking chicken,” she replied. “Your sister’s coming for dinner. You know how her husband hates fish.”
   “That idiot…” started Amin. “Now don’t talk like that about him,” reproved Shaila, “he’s your brother-in-law. Anyway we all have our preferences, you hate shrimp don’t you? Wait, I’ll get you your tea.”
   Amin remained on the bed and waited for his tea. He’d take a shower later. That journey in the scooter had exhausted him. He wondered what Shaila would say if he pulled her down on top of him when she came in with the tea. Just a five minute just-returned-from-the-office cuddle. Would she mind too much that he was so sweaty?
   The maid walked in with a saucer and a cup balanced in her hand. “Where’s your bhabi?” He asked, irritated at the collapse of his just returned home fantasy. “She’s cooking,” came the reply, “Apa’s coming for dinner.” The doorbell rang. “They’ve come, Bhaiya, I’d better get the door.” The maid left.
   Amin sat up. Instead of having a quickie cuddle with his silky little wife, now he’d have to make conversation with that idiot brother-in-law of his. He went to take a shower.
   Dinner was a raucous affair. His sister spoke too loud and too much. Her husband, who worked in a bank, had a deep voice and fancied hearing himself talk regardless of the fact that he had nothing much to say. Amin’s mother was beside herself with joy at the presence of her daughter and kept a close watch on whether her son-in-law was treated properly.
   Amin looked at his wife. She was laughing with his sister. She looked like she was enjoying herself. His mother was listening to them and smiling. The idiot was blithering on about some money deal at his office. As if Amin cared. All he wanted to do was to fall into bed. With Shaila. Just knowing that she was there relaxed him.
   Relaxation. When would they leave? He loved his sister, he did, but a hard day at the office, a wearying journey back home – what he desperately needed was sleep. He looked at his wife. She smiled at him and got up to and started removing the dishes.
   His sister jumped up, “Let me help you Bhabi.”
   “No, no, you sit down and relax. I’ll take care of it.” His sister tried to take the plates from her, “Bhabi……you’re tired……the office, cooking…” Shaila laughed, “Sit down, I promise I won’t lift a finger when I go to your house.”
   “Sit down, child,” said his mother. “She has Mina to help her if she needs help; you have enough to do in your own house without having to work when you come to your brother’s house.” Shaila helped Mina take the dishes away and served dessert. For a while the only sound that could be heard was Mina beginning the washing up in the kitchen and the clinks of spoon on bowl as Shaila doled out the sweets and the creamy yoghurt.
   “How’s your job hunting going?” Amin asked his sister.
   She sighed, “Nothing yet, but…”
   “She is so serious about looking for a job,” interrupted her husband as if indulging a little peccadillo of a favorite monkey, “You would almost think that I couldn’t afford to support her.”
   Shaila handed him dessert. “It’s not whether you can support her or not. If she wants to work she should,” she began gently, “She has an MA doesn’t she and everyone deserves a little…”
   “No no I’m not saying that she shouldn’t, of course she can work if she wants to. It’s better than just sitting at home gossiping, I dislike that, women should have something better to do with their time. At least she will be doing something constructive. And after all her own Bhabi works doesn’t she.”
   “Yes,” Shaila laughed, “and not only at the office. And don’t tell me that my sister-in-law doesn’t work because she doesn’t have an office job yet. Who do you think takes care of you and your house?” She scraped the whitish mawa off a sweet and put it in a saucer. Her mother-in-law disliked mawa.
   “See, Bhai,” the brother-in-law looked at Amin with a smile, “You let a woman work and this is what they learn – too much talk, and too much pride.” He laughed loudly as if he had just made a great joke.
   “Not too much, said Amin in an irritable manner, “Just enough.” Shaila looked at him gratefully as she handed her mother-in-law dessert.
   “No but it is good that women of this house know how to stick together, most of them they just fight fight fight like cats, always at each other. Always gossiping behind each other’s backs.” He spooned some yoghurt into his mouth. “Actually I think that your sister should become a teacher, she would be good and it is an appropriate profession for women. You know what with children and the house and everything.”
   “I wanted to become a teacher when I graduated,” said Shaila, “at the university. My results were good, but in my subject, they said I needed to do some research work. I almost got a scholarship to America, one of my professors was arranging it, but then amma came to see me for your Bhai.” Shaila laughed, “I was lucky wasn’t I Amma, straight away you liked me so much that you wanted me for your daughter-in-law immediately, do you remember?” Her mother-in-law smiled, “You looked so young to me and so pretty, fresh…not like a university girl at all.”
   Amin yawned. “It’s getting late, shouldn’t you be thinking of starting home?” As soon as he said the words Amin realized that he sounded brusque. Shaila tried to cover her husband’s rudeness, “You know what the streets are like these days.”
   “Yes yes,” chipped in mother. “And you’re wearing a gold chain. How you can go about in jewelry these days…when I was young…”
   “Amma… don’t start…” said brother and sister together. Everyone laughed, even Shaila’s mother-in-law, and the momentary uneasiness in the air washed away in the pleasant sound of shared laughter. Shaila got up and started to clear the table of the debris of their dinner. Mina was having her dinner. There was still breakfast to arrange for and lunch for themselves and the stay-at-homes.
   Amin had dozed off by the time that Shaila came to bed. He was so tired. Poor guy. Outside, it had started to rain. Shaila closed the bedroom door and just stood still awhile. She should comb her hair before she went to bed and braid it so that it remained nice and untangled in the morning, but she didn’t feel like it. Just thinking of the suppleness of the bed and the comfort of the pillow sent shivers down her spine. Remembrance of the feel of her quilt spread cozily over her while the rain soaked air wended its way inside the room warmed her body. She needed the darkness of the grave; she needed sleep. She turned the light off and lowered herself onto the bed with a tender sigh. Amin turned to her within the darkness and his hands alit on her shoulders, as light as grave-side angels yet heavy with the knowledge of sin.
   When Shaila fell asleep that night, for some reason, she didn’t dream. Didn’t dream at all.