We are sitting around the iftar buffet on the table, waiting for the Maghreb azan from the local mosque. Once it goes off, I take a sip of my water; Nilu puts the lemon drink down on the table after a small gulp. “It’s bitter and lacks sugar.” She picks up a date instead. Baba is yet to break his fast. “Baba, azan,” I remind him politely.
“The azan is as per Dhaka time. Six more minutes.” Baba says confidently.
He seems to have gone oblivious to the fact that he is in Dhaka. For the past five years he has been living here with us in Mohammadpur. He’s been repeating the same mistake for the last five years.
My mother’s sudden death took us all by surprise. Before her death, our second sibling had her share of property forged under his name. No sooner had she passed than he took control of the property by showing the fake document. Baba had to move from there to go to my elder brother’s house; in fact, Baba had to take refuge there, and in exchange, my elder brother got ownership of about 40 percent of my Baba’s land. I would keep in touch over the phone—probably out of some kind of selfless obligation—but he wouldn’t speak on the phone. So, a kind of lull permeated our connection. Days passed without any interactions. “I am scared to pick up that device,” he said.
Taking some time out, I went to the village home. A mixture of unease and distress struck me when I saw Baba curled up in a corner of the terrace of the house looking scared and anxious. The scorching midday sun was beating down on him. At first glance, he didn’t seem to have recognized me at all. Hearing me talk for some time, he said, “Oh, you! You must be going back, aren’t you?”
“I’ve just arrived,” I said. I would make an effort.
“But I have been seeing you for quite some time,” Baba was almost whispering, as if the very act of verbal communication exhausted him.
“You’re mistaken. Or maybe you have mistaken me for my elder brother.” Baba nodded in approval. “I don’t know what has actually happened to my eyes these days—people and trees—all of them appear the same.”
“Why are you sitting like that? Let’s go inside,” I pleaded.
“This is what I do every day.” He replied.
“For sure, you don’t do the right thing. That’s why you have tanned so much. When Mother was alive, your skin used to glow. Now if you go to her with this body, do you think she will be able to recognize you? Do you think she will ever forgive us?
Baba went in without an answer. As soon as Borovai saw Baba getting into the room, he intervened. “Why did you come down now? Shipu’s tutor is here. How will he study if you go into the room?
Shipu is his youngest son. Baba and Shipu lived in the same room: Baba would sleep on the floor, while Shipu slept on the bed. With a rueful grin, Baba went back to the terrace.
We would fear Baba a lot when we were young. Among all of us, Borovai was most intimidated by him. As I was the youngest, all my siblings would use me as a shield to escape reprimands. Despite knowing very well that Baba would not spare me, I stood before him to accept the brunt in exchange for four lozenges priced at one taka. Because I was the youngest and a child, I was still dealt with kindly.
My elder brother donned Baba’s glasses and pretended to be a teacher. We, the younger ones, would be his students. One day, he broke the spectacles. I took the blame as usual.
Baba twisted my ears in a way that didn’t hurt but just scared the others—he just wanted to put his message across. The next day, he got a new pair of tinted plastic glasses. He gave it to me and said, “Go and give it to the monkey. It’s a plastic one; he’d better not wear it all the time. Bad for the eyes.” After getting admitted to a school in the town, the day Borovai came to seek Baba’s blessings, Baba didn’t utter a word. Also, he didn’t eat anything that night. My mother told me that Baba had a fever. When I saw him turning back to go to the terrace that day, those memories came alive in my mind.
“We have only three rooms here. Along with Baba, there are others in the family too! I don’t know how I’ll manage everything!” Although her statements seemed unobtrusive, my sister-in-law intended them for me. “Right!” I replied to alleviate the rest of her grievances.
When, at noon, Baba was going to take his bath, I noticed a bruise across the left side of his upper back. When I inquired, he hurriedly slipped into the bathroom and locked the door on my face. After a 30-minute-long shower, he came out with reddened eyes caused by excessive drenching. I didn’t force him over it anymore. “I am taking my Baba along with me.” Bhabi, with an eagerness all too obvious in her demeanor, packed his clothes in a suitcase, while my elder brother handed over two AC bus tickets to me and said, “Baba can’t put up with AC. Look out for him.”
3.
Baba starts his iftar exactly six minutes late. Nilu finishes his first and gets up, followed by me. When Baba is through with him, he goes out for Maghreb namaj at the mosque. The way he returns home glum-faced every day, it seems he was returning from a funeral procession. As if he had lost close kin.
“Baba, do you feel bad? Are you missing Ma?” I ask.
“I couldn’t locate the Pakur tree anywhere.” He goes into his room, not answering my question.
I heard Baba and our grandfather had planted the tree in the backyard of our village home during a particularly intense monsoon. Dada had reportedly told Baba, “When I wouldn’t be here, you’d feel my presence here under this tree.” A few years back, my elder brother had the tree cut to make a set of furniture for his home. In addition, he grabbed my share of the land too. For that, he did send me a considerable amount of money.
With some of it, I got a reclining armchair made for Baba. I have had other sundry things for me as well, but I haven’t told him that. Baba walks to the balcony and sits on the chair in darkness without turning any lights on. There are some bonsai in the earthen tubs on the balcony. The gentle wind blowing across shakes the bonsais a bit, and then they stand still. Nilu’s brother-in-law, an academician, is into growing different types of bonsais. He considers it to be a work of art—an art of shaping. Running counter to his statement, I say, “This is an art of suppression.” Over and over again, we keep defending our positions on the subject. He was a good debater during his school life. He always wins an argument.
“It’s pitch dark, and then there are mosquitoes. Shall I turn on the lights?” I ask Baba. No responses come through. I keep asking Baba some one-sided questions. I try to put his mind at ease. Our only son and daughter live in Canada and America, respectively. Both rooms lie desolate, holding onto their childhood memories. At times, I unlock the shut doors, go in, and sit there for some time, holding their memories to my bosom—a symptom of empty-nest syndrome. Rest is silence. Also, I need a person to talk to. Since Baba hasn’t been saying anything in response, I go back to my room, frustrated. On the pretext of picking up a conversation, I returned to him again after an hour or so.
“Baba, would you like to have jackfruit? We have some in the house.” As usual, he remains tongue-tied, but I get a plate of jackfruit and hand it over to him.
“Do you happen to have some fermented panta rice? It’s been a while since I had panta with jackfruit!” Perched like a shadow, Baba lets out his wishes. His mouth almost doesn’t move, and it seems his voice is coming from afar.
Instead of letting Nilu know about it, I enter the kitchen and pour some refrigerated water on the hot rice in a dish and give it to my baba, who keeps on holding it in his hand.
“Baba, I am sure you wouldn’t be coming here if Ma were there.” Again, I bring in my deceased mother as a subject for discussion.” It’s been a long time since I have had any discussion about her with anyone.
Baba, however, remains quiet as usual.
“Once Ma asked me to be your snitch. Every once in a while, you would disappear in the middle of the day. Ma thought you were out to play cards at Fozu Chacha’s. When I saw you going toward our ancestral burial ground, I came back and reported to Ma that you were at Fozu Chacha’s place. When her gut feeling matched with the divulgence of my information, she turned happy for her hunch and gave me ten taka, including a bonus. Then at night when you denied going to Fozu Chacha’s card party and Ma kept defending that she had enough evidence in her hand to prove otherwise, I was busy with my spool and kite bought with the prize money. I did feel a little bad. But then I needed that spool, Baba. I was desperate to trade my soul to own a spool and kite. You knew I was behind the whole confusion; why didn’t you scold me? Did you know how many times after that incident I avoided being in your presence?”
Hearing me blurt, still bitten by guilt, Baba dissolved into laughter. I heard him laugh after so long! The laughter came reverberating from afar.
4.
He moves away like a shadow, and after ablutions, he goes out to the mosque for Esha prayers. He goes quietly by himself and returns the same way. I open and close the door. Sometimes, I accompany him just to make sure Baba sits close to the entryway. He looks intently at each person who comes to the mosque. Perhaps looking for a familiar face. Even though I know that he won’t get anyone from our village in this mosque in Dhaka, I can’t say it to his face. Regularly, a person goes to the mosque and stays put, looking around for someone known. I just don’t want to destroy his hope.
After his namaz, again he sits in the balcony armchair in the darkness.
“Baba, won’t you go to bed?”
“How about a glass of water?”
“Shall I turn the lights on?” I wait for a response
He keeps sitting on the armchair, gazing at the bonsai banyan tree, silent.
I wait; he remains quiet as if he has lost all his words. I return to bed when Nilu calls. We need to get up for Shehri in some time, and then there is the office next morning. I shouldn’t stay up late. I have been late to the office for the last few days; my boss dressed me down mildly already. “I think this time the Roza is not suiting you too well!” However soft, it is a red flag for sure. As soon as I return from the office, Nilu berates for this thing and that which I try to ignore and fall asleep. To my utter surprise, I see Nilu falling asleep like a log as I keep turning with unease. I leave the bed once again. I see Baba sitting on the chair the same way in darkness.
“Baba, don’t you feel like sleeping?” I inquire.
Baba doesn’t say anything.
“Are you sick? Shall I take you to the doctor tomorrow?” He has no answer.
“Why won’t you talk?” I ask only to receive silence in response.
Baba was a primary school teacher. At school or at home, wherever he went, he spoke so loudly, not giving others any chance to interrupt.
His voice swallowed up all others. Now, for days and nights, he doesn’t say a single word. I can’t take it anymore and yell at the top of my voice: “Baba, what on earth is your problem?”
Baba raises his head a bit. Perhaps he wants to say something.
“Where are you?” Nilu calls out from our bedroom.
Author: Mojaffor Hossain is a contemporary Bangla fiction writer and translator at Bangla Academy.
Translator: Haroonuzzaman is a Bangladeshi translator, novelist, poet, researcher, and academic.
