Lockdown Part 5

Shakil Ahmed had a lovely late-afternoon routine. He’d go to the small teashop right outside the campus, have a steaming cup of tea in cheap glasses, smoke a cigarette, and chat. People who regularly joined him in the shop were three of his colleagues—Nurul Islam, Shamsuzzaman Khan, and Modon Molla— and two local men—Rafiqul Islam the Banker, and Kamal Uddin the Engineer. They usually began chatting an hour before sunset and continued well beyond sunset for around fifteen minutes or so. The chatting hardly saw a proper conclusion. It had to end in the middle of a heated debate, or any silly, entertaining story because the teachers had to leave to get dressed for their Prep Duties.

Shakil Ahmed felt sorry for himself every time he had to leave the teashop for his Prep Duty. Yet, whatever time he spent there was a source of immense relief. It was the best part of his days because he was able to be himself. He has always loved to talk to people, and of course, to smoke. And the only time and place which allowed him to do both amid his stressful job was the late afternoon and that teashop.

Needless to say, he’s missing his favorite haunt tremendously ever since the lockdown.

To be honest, he craves for the smoking more than the chats. Chatting he still can with his colleagues, even though the atmosphere of the teashop is never to be found inside the campus. But smoking is absolutely impossible. It’s a military-run institution, and you can imagine the consequences if one is caught smoking a cigarette in here.

He shuffles his legs. This concrete bench he’s sitting on at the moment has a cool feeling to it, but it’s no match for those bamboo benches of the teashop. He doesn’t know why he likes them so much. Maybe it’s the feeling of the countryside that comes with bamboo benches.

Right then, he notices a tall, male figure walking in his direction. He knows him. It’s Nayeem Murtaza, the Math teacher, and the one who prepared the infamous Duty Roaster.

He gets up from the bench and begins rubbing his hands.

Yeah, come to daddy. Come to daddy.

“Shakil! How are you?” Nayeem Murtaza stretches his hands wide as if he’s about to take Shakil Ahmed in his arms.

“I’m good, sir.”

“So, how’s the lockdown working for you?”

“Good. Very good, sir. Except it could’ve worked a lot better.”

Nayeem Murtaza frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Shakil Ahmed takes a pause, “that I would’ve enjoyed the lockdown a lot more if it weren’t for a few conspirations.”

“Shakil, you better check your tone.”

“Well, sir, it’s because of my tone that I’m in this trouble. I’m the good guy. I’m not the kind of person who’ll argue over small things. That’s why I’m lumbered with all the burdens. I’m an easy option. Right, sir?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you know it too well, sir.” It’s Shakil Ahmed who frowns now. “How many duties do you have this week?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It wouldn’t be. I never had the habit of poking my nose into other people’s business. But you see, sir, eight Morning duties, four Prep duties, and five HDMs in fifteen days seems a little too much, doesn’t it?”

Nayeem Murtaza finally understands what this is all about. “Look, I don’t make that roaster because I want to. I do it because the Principal tells me to do it. If you have any problem with the roaster, I’m not your guy. Talk to the Principal about it.”

“I will, sir.” Shakil Ahmed harshens his voice. “This time I’ll take it to the Principal. Sometimes you have to go difficult ways to make things happen if the simple way doesn’t work.”

Shakil Ahmed turns around. He walks with the sweet taste of vengeance bubbling up inside him.

If that asshole didn’t flatter the senior teachers all the time, Shakil Ahmed thinks, none of this would happen. The Duty Roaster wouldn’t be messy, I wouldn’t get angry, he wouldn’t get this slap in the face. But it felt great to insult him. Real great.

***

Naima Akhter feels upset in her tummy, the kind of feeling you have when you’ve eaten too many biscuits or candies or something like that in an empty stomach. She can’t believe what she has just read.

Some guy’s mother had breathing difficulties, so the guy thought she had been infected. While he was on his way home from Dhaka in a microbus, he made the bus-driver pull over by the Madhupur forest. He had his mother get down on the street from the bus, and told her that he will come pick her up again tomorrow. Then he took off with the microbus without listening to his mother’s pleads, and of course, never came back the following day. Meanwhile, the locals took the sick woman to the District Hospital, her samples were tested, and it was found out that she was COIVD-19 Negative.

What kind of a son is he? Naima thinks. He left his mother in a forest just because she had breathing problems! He wasn’t even sure she had the virus. And even if she had the virus, how can you just…. leave your mother?

The upset feeling intensifies.

She suddenly remembers that she needs to be careful about her health, now more than ever. She switches off the phone and throws it to her side. It falls on another pillow in the bed. She can’t let those grotesque Facebook Feeds to upset her. Her tummy, of all parts in her body.

She rubs her tummy. She hasn’t started to swell yet; it’s been only twenty-three days. But she’s sensing a few changes. For instance, she’s feeling queasy every day in the early morning. She even vomited once in the washbasin right after she woke up. There’s a certain tiredness always accompanying her mind all the time. She’s losing her temper frequently. Up to now, it’s her phone that has suffered her wrath as she hurled it on the floor twice. Fortunately, the screen didn’t shatter completely and the cracks that appeared weren’t too many.

But the most mysterious of the changes is a magical intuition. A presence. A life within a life. She can sense it. Sometimes it’s vague. Sometimes it’s so sharp that all the hairs in her skin stand on end.

Every time she senses this otherworldly sensation, there’s something else that comes soon. A horrifying thought. A nervous uncertainty.

What if something goes wrong? What if the situation worsens so much that I don’t get doctors for my delivery? It’s nothing too absurd. Already there’s shortage of doctors.

Okay, say the delivery went well. But what if I don’t get foods to take care of the baby?

What if the baby’s sick and I can’t get medicine?

It keeps coming. It renders her powerless. At times she finds tears in her cheeks.

She is grateful for a number of things, though. She had her Maternity Leave approved without any hassles. The school authority is the sternest when it comes to approving the applications of leave. She had feared she would have to do all the godforsaken duties with the baby in her womb. But no such thing happened.

I’ve been too crazy, she realizes now. This was the Maternity Leave. They couldn’t possibly delay a Maternity Leave.

Her two sisters, Tahmina and Tamanna, have been a blessing too. Two months ago, they came to her house from Khulna, a district quite far away from the campus, to pay a visit. They had planned only to stay for a couple of weeks, but then COVID-19 made its first strike in Bangladesh, jeopardizing everything. When the school-campus was locked down, Naima Akhter told the Principal about Tahmina and Tamanna, that they were practically detained in her house and needed to be sent back home. But the Principal couldn’t agree, because the Army Headquarters had strict orders of not letting anyone into or out of the campus. Tamanna and Tahmina were disappointed, but Naima Akhter tried to reassure them, telling they were safer inside the well-protected campus.

But Tamanna and Tahmina didn’t need that reassurance. Very soon, there arrived a piece of news that made their presence in the house more meaningful than it could ever be: Naima got pregnant.

Naima is lucky to have a very caring husband, Munirul Alam. He works in an IT firm near the campus as a Marketing Manager, and therefore is a very busy man. Yet he looks after Naima as much as he can. Even he washes some of the clothes and plates every night. But looking after a pregnant woman, that would have been extremely challenging for both him and Naima. Except they have an additional two pairs of helping hands in the house right when they needed them, as if they were a godsend.

Tahmina, eighteen, was supposed to sit for the HSC—Higher School Certificate—exam, the public exam with which the secondary education comes to an end. Tamanna, twenty-one, was studying Botany in Khulna University and going to get past her second year through the Year-final exam. Both of these exams have been postponed and no one knows when and how they are going to happen. Tahmina and Tamanna would have definitely fretted about the uncertainties of their education, but Naima Akhter’s pregnancy made them forget everything. They welcomed the new responsibility with both hands. From the very first day, they had started taking their sister’s care with gusto.

Tamanna is the more careful sister. She’s pinned a Daily Nutrient Chart for Pregnant Women on the wall opposite the dining table, and she sees to it the chart is strictly abided by every day. She’s very uncompromising about it. “Every single calorie is important”—this has become her favorite dialogue.

Tahmina is not so cautious as Tamanna, but she plays her part. Several times a day, she lifts Naima’s dress from her tummy, rests her ear, and listens. She told Naima that she hasn’t felt any movement yet. “Except those terrible rumbles. You’ve got a lot of gas in there, sis,” she had said with a grin.

I’ve got people to look after me. They won’t let anything bad happen. To me, or the baby. I can count on them. I’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m okay. It’s gonna be okay.

She turns over in the bed. She looks at her sleeping husband.

Munir has these lines in his face. They look good. But that’s not right, is it? Lines in the face means you’re getting old. So why do I adore them? I should be hating him for these lines and maybe start teasing him.

She giggles. Instict tells her to stretch her hands and stroke Munir’s cheeks. But she resists it. She knows very well how light his sleep is.

“You and I are going to go through this,” she mutters. “We will.”