Arif Ahmed unleashed his students against the government. Several hartals were called in quick succession. They were vicious. A fisherman was killed in a skirmish between the student wings of the political parties. Two rickshawpullers were bombed while pulling their rickshaws during hartal hours. It took them twenty-four and forty-eight hours to die. An auto-rickshaw was burned to ashes, and when the driver tried to put out the flames, he was sprinkled with petrol, and burned to death. It took him more than two days to die. A truck driver died when a bomb was thrown on his truck. And a sixteen-year-old, injured by a bomb, died after struggling for his life for eleven days. A policemen succumbed to his injuries after two days.** Only the rains gave some relief from the vigilance of the boys.
There was no novelty, of course. It was like watching a re-run of the overthrow of the General. Only Lalla Rookh succeeded in surprising me.
On opening the door, I saw a woman in a red saree and black, sleeveless blouse. She wore red lipstick, golden eye-shadow and a circular, black teep on her forehead. The diaphanous chiffon saree had been folded only once over her bosom and shoulder, and worn below the navel, revealing the dark mounds of her breasts and white cleavage, and her midriff. She was taller on account of her black heels. Her hair had been cut short The ebony strap of her handbag hung from white flesh. She exuded a breathtaking aroma.
"You look as though you've seen a ghost." She sat casually down, crossing her legs, and spread an arm over the sofa. Her long finger-nails were painted red, and gold bangles concealed her wrist. She wore ruby earrings and a ruby necklace.
"Maybe I wish I had." I seated myself at a distance. "You're an excellent target for a mugger, at this time of the night."
Her golden eyelids shut leisurely as she shook her head. "Don't worry about me, Zafar. I'm not riding a rickshaw and getting wet anymore." A raised index-finger pointed to the window. "But why do you wish you'd seen a ghost? I'm only taking your advice."
I looked down, trying to recall details of our last conversation. The fan played with her saree to show her ankles.
"You said we've sold ourselves. Well, I hadn't, and I began to see where I'd gone wrong. So I went and sold myself to Arif." Her plucked, tapering brows rose, accompanied by a minimum turn of the head, to indicate how simple it was. "The first time I went as a beggar, just skin and bones. The second time I went as a woman with something to sell. I stripped before him, and he had me right there and then. And I got what I wanted." She looked around my flat. "You know, Zafar, you haven't done very well out of politics. Even Arif's bedroom is bigger than your flat. Oh yes! I live with him, in his enormous penthouse, way up there. In fact, I was just going back there from a party for the great and the good. You see, some people hope to be ministers when the General wins the next election. They don't care about my boy, of course…."
Neither of us spoke. Only the torrent drummed all around us. Her forehead glistened with sweat. Now, the muezzin's call to evening prayer mingled with the monsoon.
"Arif always believed in power," I found myself saying, to break the silence.
She didn't seem to hear me. Looking down, she asked, "You think there's a God, Zafar? I hope He'll forgive me."
"I'm sure He will."
She looked up straight at me again. "Yes, Arif always believed in power. Do you remember how he argued with you in class one day? You were talking about how conscience preceded the unified state…."
"Oh yes! I'm not likely to forget that. He made me think hard afterwards."
"You were saying that conscience appears before the state is united. Buddhism in India, Confucianism in China, Islam in Arabia…."
"He pounced on the exception, of course."
"That's right. Christianity and the Roman Empire."
"I remember his exact words.
"He stood up and said, 'The exception, which was based on slavery and the rejection of slavery, proves that conscience has nothing to do with the state. If anything, that they're antithetical. Slavery is a recurrent phenomenon of Western civilisation.' "When I said that slavery was unique to Western civilisation, he replied, 'A general theory must take the unique into account. Power is the only reality the state understands.'"
"You remember every word!"
"It was a good argument." Had she forgotten the poem that she had given me the next day? That had been her way of reacting against him. But she will need to reason more, and feel less, in the future; it's a prosaic world.
Another silence followed. Occasionally a light wind would flirt with her perfume and lift her hair. Outside, the rain soaked the sultry night.
"Do you trust him?"
She looked away from the wetness at me. "I think so. The night before last, he had Nafeez come to the flat. When Nafeez saw me there, he was furious.
" 'Why are you living with him?' he screamed.
" 'Shut up!' said Arif. "Your moral values don't give you any right to question your mother.'
"Well, that worked. Then he told him to start attending classes and stop collecting taxes and taking drugs. I was amazed. And relieved. Nafeez did not say a word. And he went to class the next day, and he's been going everyday. I also have something important to say to Arif."
"So you trust him."
"So far he's kept his side of the bargain." Looking down at her bare midriff, translucent bust and gold bangles, she arched her mouth, shrugged, and said, "And I've kept mine. As long as he gets what he wants, I don't see why he won't give me what I want. Besides, I have something important to tell him."
The trouble with people who can feel around corners is that they cannot think in a crooked line. She believed that the worth of her merchandise was proportionate to his purchasing power. A man who ran half the nation could procure more than a penthouse-full of women like her.
* The policeman died in the hartals preceding the 2007 elections in Bangladesh; the others died in the hartals before the previous elections.
