Leaving Baba
1911 – East Bengal
Zubair was wrapped in a blanket. He sat on the edge of Parveen’s bed with the sickly yellow light of the lantern playing across his face.
“Didi?” he called. Parveen, his nanny, was like an elder sister and had insisted on being called didi.
She came into the room from the low doorway. The yellow glow illuminated her high cheek bones, her eyes were in shadows and her dark hair hidden beneath a headscarf. Suddenly, looking up at her, she was a stranger to him. Zubair shivered.
“It’s all right. You don’t have to be scared here,” she said.
Parveen had brought him to her house, a small rundown place, somewhere among the slums of Dhaka, with two rooms—a small kitchen and the bedroom at the front. The only furniture was a wooden bed, a woven rug—Parveen must have made it herself—and a chest for her belongings.
“Let me take a look,” she was saying. Her gloved hand, the burnt hand, unbuttoned his shirt—the glove had been a gift from his amma. Zubair looked away. She was gentle, as anticipated, and showed no expressions of disgust as she pealed away his top.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” was all Zubair could bring himself to say. Purple lines, new and old bruises, were painted around his chest but most were on his back. He was glad Parveen did not own a mirror, he could not bear to look at his reflection—the face staring back would be his baba’s.
Thinking about his father, Zubair frowned. Parveen sensed his annoyance. She sat beside him, as caring as ever.
“Baba will find me. He won’t let you off gently,”
“We’ll go away from here,” Parveen assured him. The shirt was in her lap, neatly folded in her special way—it looked new and crisp, hardly any creases were traceable. “My family live in Sylhet, you’ll like it there.”
Zubair saw her in a different light. She was reflecting, her voice soft and low and her eyes sparkling. At eighteen, four years his senior, she should have already been married but Parveen gave up the country way of life to work in the city, to look after him and send the wages to her family. On the other hand, no man wanted a disfigured wife.
“Our house is near the field. You can see the local school from the roof and the cows grazing. Did I tell you about my goats? There are five of them, amma sent me a letter and my brother, Shaheen, drew their pictures.” A smile came across her lips.
It was six years since the Partition of Bengal. Zubair remembered his father telling news of the Hindus moving to live in West Bengal and how the Muslims, with the divide, would now have a better opportunity to find work and his son would get a decent education. But that would come to an end, the Westerners did not like the separation and wanted the Partition revoked.
Like the Partition, Parveen was changing things for him—for good. She had taken Zubair from his home, from his violent father, to live in safety with her family. He was supposed to be happy. After all, Parveen was taking risks for his sake and leaving the city to once more settle in Sylhet. But a part of him doubted they could escape his father’s wrath. People would be paid to look out for them. Then what? His mother would be of no help, she was blind to his suffering.
“What if the train doesn’t come? Baba will surely find us, he’ll kill you!”
“He won’t. The train will come and we’ll get away. Don’t ruin our hope.”
The scarf slipped from Parveen’s head. Zubair caught a glimpse of her tasbih, gleaming with an unusual bright light.
“I’ve got everything ready,” she smiled again. A bundle was slumped by the front door. Parveen went over and checked its contents. “You’re like Shaheen, he always fears for the worst. A pessimist.”
Zubair picked up his shirt and put it back on. The blanket was beside him, as he felt for it there came a loud rap at the door. He turned to Parveen. Was she expecting someone so late?
“Parveen! You have something of mine!”
The booming voice instantly aroused fear to pulse inside Zubair. He knew that voice, Zubair never should have left and now, with no one to stop his father, the man would certainly beat him to death.
“Baba!” he cried out and climbed into the bed, trying to hide under the covers.
Again the voice shouted, swearing in a bout of anger. Something heavy rammed against the door, already Zubair could hear the groan from the timber and he caught Parveen gazing, intently, at him.
“He doesn’t love you. But I always will, I’ll never hurt you.”
She was sitting on the floor. Sooner or later the door would give way, Zubair’s father would drag him into the street and even he didn’t know what was in store for Parveen.
Outside there were more shouts and calls, people had been disturbed and were keen to know what was going on and Zubair imagined what they would say, would they be sympathetic towards Parveen? Could he still run from his father?
A split appeared and cracked the wood. He saw Parveen close her eyes, her fingers touching the tasbih, and whispered a prayer.
.:
Didi -- Sister
Amma -- Mother
Baba -- Father
Tasbih -- Prayer beads
