Abdul Ali was waiting for us at our door. There was no chair or stool in the passage, so he must have been standing the whole time. ‘Where have you been so long?’ he asked, almost angrily, as soon as he saw us climb up the stairs. He had come to call us to an urgent meeting with Moina Mia; it was a meeting we mustn’t miss, he said.
As we followed him silently, he drew our attention to his Mujib coat. How did he look, he asked; did he look like a real supporter of Sheikh Mujib? He told us that because of a step taken by Moina Mia recently to strengthen public support for Sheikh Mujib, from now on he would have to wear a coat, gatekeeper Ruhul Amin would have to wear one, and Basu and Gesu would have to wear coats as well. Moina Mia’s initiative did not end there, he said. Though it was not election time, new measures were taken to raise huge wooden boats—the insignia of the Awami League—in the market, at important intersections, at the gates of the refugee camps, and at other significant public venues. There would be at least sixteen boats across the constituency; and the first one would be raised over the gate of Moina Mia’s residence.
I could not tell if he looked like a real supporter of Sheikh Mujib or not, I said, but I could tell for sure he looked interesting. ‘What do you mean by interesting?’ he asked immediately, sounding concerned. ‘Are you trying to insult me?’ He stopped, refused to walk further until I had explained myself. His expression of delight was ruined, and I imagined I had caused him immeasurable trouble with my comment. Where this trouble came from, I could also guess. He should not worry, I said softly; if Moina Mia knew what a person would feel in a coat, when wearing that coat was compulsory, he would not have imposed it in the first place. He wanted to arrange a pageant, with hundreds of people across the constituency wearing the coat. His purpose would be served. He could boast to the Awami League council that he had gone beyond the traditional way of popularizing the party; he had made an extra effort to protect Sheikh Mujib’s legacy. Nobody would bother to read what was written in the hearts of those wearing the coat. They might be real supporters, but if they were not it did not matter. Abdul Ali could look like a monkey in that coat, or a crow without a tail, but to Moina Mia he would still be a loyal colleague, a valuable fighter for Sheikh Mujib, an indispensable element of his pageantry.
‘Do I look like a monkey in the coat?’ Abdul Ali asked, as he took the first step onward. ‘Do I really look like a crow, so ugly?’
I asked Nur Hussain what he thought. ‘Why don’t you answer him?’ I said. ‘After all it is not a meaningless question.’
He said, ‘Protect your heart. Forget the rest.’
Did he learn that from Shah Abdul Karim, I wondered.
Abdul Ali took a moment to understand Nur’s words. Then he smiled. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘and I don’t care, as long as my employer considers me real.’
Gatekeeper Ruhul Amin gave us a salaam with his regular indifference and opened the small door in the gate. Unlike Abdul Ali, he was always quiet and reserved; but today he seemed frighteningly quiet. He did not like to wear his coat, Abdul Ali whispered with a smile, as if he was still enjoying my comment. ‘See, he has already lost one of the middle buttons. Come after a week, you’ll find he has eaten up the whole thing.’ He led us to Moina Mia’s sitting room. Soon Basu entered with Arabian dates and chocolate biscuits on a tray while Gesu followed him with a pot of tea and teacups. They served us courteously, as always, and then stood aside waiting for Moina Mia’s gesture. It was obvious they felt uneasy in their coats, but when Moina Mia drew our attention to them, they stood side by side, soldiers before their commander. ‘Slogan,’ he said. One of them said a long Joy Bangla, and the other replied with a similarly long Joy Sheikh Mujib. They uttered the slogan three times before being dismissed. Abdul Ali followed them.
In the quiet room Moina Mia looked at the portrait of Sheikh Mujib on the wall again and again as he sipped the tea noisily. Sitting before us, he looked at his shoulder, his arms, his chest, then caressed the back of his left hand softly. Then he coughed, prepared himself to speak, but failed to come out of his reverie. There was anger in him, or an unbound tension, under which he felt suffocated. He lit a cigarette, went to the window and smoked rapidly, while playing absent-mindedly with the window curtain. Looking back, he gestured at us to eat the biscuits. ‘Today I double your fee,’ he said, as he settled down. Then a little later, after getting no response from us: ‘No, I treble it. You have done a good job; you will continue to do a good job. If you deserve a better fee, I should be prepared to offer you a better fee.’ He returned to sit back on the sofa. ‘I cannot be unreasonable with people whom I need badly, and as people whom I need badly, you too should not behave unreasonably with me, not even in uncertain situations. What do you say?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Unreasonableness will not benefit either of us. And that is not what we are here for.’
The reason for his extreme generosity was as follows. Sheikh Mujib had expressed a serious desire to meet Nur Hussain. He was aware that there was someone in the country who could deliver his speech with due passion and inspiration. Would Nur Hussain be kind enough to accept the invitation of the prime minister to see him at his residence as soon as possible?
I looked at Nur Hussain; first, to be sure he had heard exactly what I had heard, and second, to observe his reaction to what had just been said. If it were in our flat, and only in the company of Abdul Ali, I would have jumped for joy. I would have pulled him off the sofa, made him dance with me. But he kept his usual silence, as if he had no clue who Sheikh Mujib was, or even if he had, he did not think such an invitation would be unexpected. Whatever the reason, I appreciated his silence. Here was a man made of stone. He wanted me to decide for him, to understand the pros and the cons and to act accordingly. All negotiations were mine; he was only a speaker and did not want to complicate his role by getting involved in superior intellectual matters like decision-making, management and negotiation.
Immediately it became clear to me why Moina Mia had wanted to increase our fee before we even asked for a raise. He could no longer neglect us—now that we had come to the attention of his leader. He was clever. He had not become an MP for nothing. His head was full of ideas.
Personally I felt great. When we were visiting local markets, in the beginning, I was not sure where we were going and how long we would be able to continue. Working for Moina Mia saved us. Now it was time to think big. It was time to plan again, to utilize every opportunity without fear. I could not wait to smell the new money, to clasp it in both my hands.