Arts & Letters, April 2018

Most of this I glean from her Saturday assistant. The lonely
crone is full of frivolous talk. My charms, and the treats I buy
her at the tea shop, unlock secrets
enced artiste.
Her family is a small one—the parents have retired to their village home
in Rajshahi, and two elder brothers live in nearby cities. Ayesha is almost
twenty-four, and is often pressed to marry. Concerned relatives regularly
send messages praising this or that bachelor. But Ayesha shows no interest
in meeting a man to share her days with.
Most of this I glean from her Saturday assistant. The lonely crone is
full of frivolous talk. My charms, and the treats I buy her at the tea shop,
unlock secrets. This woman fits perfectly into this slatternly megalopolis;
her hands are crude and square and they look as capable of murder as
they are of washing the fragile garments of sweet Ayesha.
I know this shrew well, as well as I know this city of my birth. This
great labyrinth of men and beasts shrieks and groans in the night as its
bones stretch, as new buildings swell and bridges collapse, as red dust
fills the air, and as cement bags, glass slabs, and iron rods stifle the sounds
of childbirth, of pedestrians run over by VVIPs, of bulldozers clearing
shanty-towns and forests, of women trafficked and raped and of worried
children that pray in square madrasas. And our gentle youths sit by nonplussed,
only to blow smoke into the skies. All of this takes place as motors
and politicians belch carbon at us, and as compromised soldiers take
aim, as seasons disappear, as idols topple and burn and as generations are
buried in peaty and foreign marshes on their way to seek employment
abroad.
In daylight, just as at night when the power cuts arrive, this colossus of
a city groans under the weight of its own frame, and as bones turn to diamond
under the crush they are mined and shipped away quietly. While
some acquire furs, others hunt frogs and rodents and monitor-lizards. But
there is no right or wrong side for me—we are all tormented by gnats and
give chase to flashy flags, in this mad, striped merry-go-round, while behind
us we hear the hiss and gurgle of a tidal surge assuming shape.
In my own days, as a marketing mercenary, I shielded myself from the
squalor. I made money for myself – an astute and ruthless tradesman, my
returns were high. But then, just as I thought there was nothing left in
this warren for me to learn, nothing left to beat or break, I found Ayesha.
The first day I spied on her, she was waiting for a bus. Tender-footed
rascals horded about her, but Ayesha was patient. A rock, she held them
down like bits of flapping papers. In all her simplicity, she struck me in the
gut with the undeniable realization that before me stood the last, unpolluted
woman in this city. And I knew then that she must be mine.
I have been watching her since, to measure my stratagem.
It is a minor irritation to discern that there is a competitor for my attention.
The buffoon, his name is Kamal. Though he works in the restaurant
as a waiter, he has his petty aspirations: His brother owns the restaurant.
Kamal has been working there for three years and his sister attends a
boarding school in the village. She visits her two brothers over the summer
and on holidays. I study Kamal as closely as I watch the lesions that
increasingly break over my skin.
I have heard that for three years now, rain or shine, this jester has been
wooing Ayesha. He never looks at any other. While he has never missed
a morning, he does not try to approach or speak to her. He just sticks to
his laughing and clapping thing, oblivious to the world that slows down
to observe the encounter. It is not unusual for Ayesha to peer shyly when
pedestrians confront Kamal and demand that he cease harassing her. But
he, this bizarre man, keeps laughing with delight and their objections
melt away in the face of his absurd innocence.
Local shopkeepers tell me that Ayesha knows his name, but never
speaks of him. Residents in the quarter are well accustomed to the daily
ceremony. Kamal never fails to plant himself in his spot, greeting everyone.
The imbecile is well-liked by neighborhood regulars—laborers pause
to address him, housewives procuring groceries chuckle on espying him,
and elders sit down to adda with him. They commonly anticipate Ayesha’s
arrival. Children of the mohallah patrol the road and shout to Kamal that
no, she was not there, or yes, she’s on the way, she’s almost here. Ayesha
knows most of these children by name. They follow her, but she eventual
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DHAKA TRIBUNE | SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 2018 ARTS & LETTERS