Arts & Letters, April 2018

Short story
16
ly shoos them away with sweets and cheap candies. These children,
these midget match-makers, pose a threat to my success, and to my
scheme of ridding Ayesha of her blustering devotee. I have tried to win
the favor of these little savages, but they avoid me; it is apparent their
loyalties have been won over before my arrival.
In the evenings, after I visit my debtors, I return to her road. In the
descending darkness, I shift my vantage point from the end of the street
to from across the restaurant. In the twilight, I can watch undisturbed. I
sip on tea, and smoke cigarettes with a newspaper folded on my knees. I
blend in with the locals like a gecko, untouched by their chatter I wait for
Ayesha. No one detects my raspy breathing and my irregular heartbeat.
When she returns from work, Kamal is usually busy serving dinner. He
cannot watch for her then, but if their eyes meet, he smiles before returning
to work. She tries not to look into the restaurant but I have frequently
spotted her doing so. It makes me furious to think that seeing him again
could be a marker for the end of her day.
I have observed and learned this over the months since I first unearthed
Ayesha. Since the sky split open its gray to pour her colors at my feet. I
know I am not a good man, but Ayesha will save me. She will prevent my
end from meaninglessness. She will lend me grace and succor to the last
day. When I gain her, I will empty out every bit of my pain, and like limp
monsoon soils, she will take me into her bosom.
In the twilight, I can watch undisturbed. I sip on tea, and
smoke cigarettes with a newspaper folded on my knees.
I blend in with the locals like a gecko, untouched by their
chatter I wait for Ayesha
These past months have been busy for me. Apart from winning over
her housekeeper, I have visited Ayesha’s hospital on Fridays to speak to
her colleagues. Assisted with an introduction from a corruptible receptionist,
I have posed as a hospice inspector and discovered a great deal
about Ayesha’s world, and things that Kamal cannot know … things that
he cannot clap about. I have learned about the women Ayesha treats, the
ones who have survived acid attacks. After hospital treatment, they move
to shelters to engage in cottage industry – some sort of weaving or crafting.
They stay out of the public eye as much as possible: Very few can deal
with the stares.
The staff that work there are resolute about progress; they have showed
me a picture of a group of women who traveled abroad for surgery. The
picture shows the patients after operations were done and bandages were
removed, and they are smiling. But when I look beyond their scabbed
and tentacled features to piece together their souls, I determine that they
must be empty smiles. Surgery can do only so much in the absence of
skin and bone. I know from the washerwoman that Ayesha has this same
picture in her room.
I have probed ingeniously into Ayesha, and they pronounce her a good
worker with a flawless record. She is kind to the patients. They tell me
how difficult it is when a survivor wants to know how she looks, and
when they ask if the wounds are to heal. As the pathetic caretakers began
to shed a tear, I turned away in disgust.
But one nurse notices this, and maybe she has detected my sickness,
but she grips my arm. In a voice almost possessed she tells me that, yes,
there are victims upon victims abandoned by their families. I nod, feigning
sympathy, but she will not let go. Speaking into my face, this runt of
a woman then tells me about a husband who stayed with his young wife,
though she had been blinded and scarcely had a human aspect to her
remaining face. She recounts to me how the husband painted his wife’s
fingernails. She says the man made his wife beautiful again, every single
day.
I pull my arm free, and take my leave of them. I notice the nurse still
shaking as I leave, and I almost want to run back in and deal her a blow. I
want to pull her down and leave her a wreck.
Now that my research is complete, I have decided to make my move.
Every morning, I let my presence be known to Ayesha. When she reaches
my intersection, I am sure to engage her in conversation. I pretend to
laugh the loudest, to make the most sense, and yet appear most considerate.
My clothes are neat and my hair is parted impeccably. I buy appetizers
for my foolish compatriots and quickly become a favorite in my own
little corner.
These are happy and new days for me. Though Ayesha notices me, she
continues to walk modestly with her head down. However, I am sure I
have detected her glance at me approvingly. Everything is perfect; all that
remains is to rid ourselves of Kamal’s distractions. It is time.
Days ago, I have experienced a disconcerting moment. While I am
scrutinizing Kamal, he abruptly turns towards me from his spot at the
restaurant. While he is quite at a distance, and though his idiotic smile
stays in place, I can swear that his eyes fix on me and look right past my
defense. It feels as if there is an internal shifting of liquids, a flickering of
mental shadows that forebode danger. A shiver passes through me and I
feel exposed and afraid. But this only lasts an instant, and as Kamal turns
away, my confidence sweeps back. Ayesha will be mine. She is ready for
my picking.
My plan is simple. I know the school Kamal’s sister attends. I hire three
men to visit her campus and harass her. There is no need for anything extreme,
but they scare the pretty thing into calling for her city siblings. The
news has reached the two brothers this morning. I take my stool at the
intersection early on this great day. Gossipmongers have ensured that the
news of the sister’s predicament is exaggerated. It is early and Ayesha is
not expected yet. Word has buzzed down the street: Listen to the urchins
cry out, “Kamal bhai, poor Kamal bhai. He must leave immediately, his
sister is ill.” The neighborhood is humming with reports: Kamal’s elder
brother will stay and run the business, while the fool will attend to the
sister. See how the shutters on the restaurant front are half drawn, as if
in mourning. And Kamal is nowhere to be seen, his spot outside remains
empty.
Ayesha must be stepping out from her flat now, and she must immediately
know that something is wrong. There are no little faces peeping
around the buildings to watch for her. The pests are sitting by the roadside,
too dejected to hail her. Now, as she turns her corner and enters my
line of vision, I can tell she walks in confusion. The locals are too troubled
to meet her eye. The laborers swallow their glum bread, as even the
tea-stall owner loses interest in stirring his syrups. Nobody acknowledges
Ayesha as she approaches.
See her amazement that the space outside the restaurant is bare. The
clown is not there, a first in three years. She passes the restaurant, looks
within and hesitates at the doorway, stumbling with indecision. Oh yes,
Ayesha continues to amble her usual way. She walks slowly though, and
no children chase her today. As she reaches my intersection, and the
game is almost complete, she stops suddenly. She turns and strides back
to the restaurant. I rise from my corner and run after her. I gain ground to
find her at the entrance. Kamal is sitting at a table inside, his face buried
in his hands. His shoulders slouched, his back is to us as he stares into
the dust at his feet. He is unaware of us at the entryway and of the whole
neighborhood that is watching.
Before I can catch my breath, Ayesha enters and sits at Kamal’s table,
facing him. Her face is gentler and more serene than I have ever seen;
even gentler than when she is with her dear beggar-children. She puts her
plain bag down and waits for his eyes to find her. I hear her speak, “What
is it, Kamal? I am here … for you now …”
And I know my work here is done. •
ARTS & LETTERS SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 2018 | DHAKA TRIBUNE