Our first speaking engagement for Sheikh Mujib was yet to be scheduled. We were to look for a new house, well protected with high boundary walls like I had described to Moina Mia, and with enough space and furniture for our new life together, although I still didn’t really know Nur Hussain either as a person or as an accomplice.
Within a couple of days I no longer saw the new pair of shoes on his feet or anywhere in the flat. I did not see the pair I had bought him when he first started delivering the speech. He was using the ones he had arrived in from Gangasagar—the dark red rubber sandals with blue laces.
Had he donated the shoes to someone? Everything could be sold at such a time: blood, bones, organs, babies, virginity, honesty, everything. A pair of shoes would be one of the more sophisticated items. They had more market value than the newly printed Constitution of the country. Shoes could be sold and resold, unlike a Constitution.
I would buy him another pair, I said to myself. It was only a pair of shoes. Not a huge loss. Probably he did not like the colour, and he could not tell me he did not, for the sake of keeping me happy and satisfied. Probably they did not fit him properly. He knew it the moment he opened the box, which was why he hadn’t even tried on both shoes; he had tried on only one. Next time I would take him to the store when I bought his shoes so that he could choose the pair he liked. A man should have the right to choose his own shoes.
The following day I did not see the bed sheet on his bed. I asked him where it was, if he had soaked it in soapy water to wash later, though I had already checked every corner of the flat, including the toilet. The buckets were empty. The soap was in its place.
I could be stubborn, but this was a time when I wanted to be stubborn with him the least. It might cost me dearly. My stubbornness could cause him to leave me. It might begin with something as simple as a conversation about a pair of shoes and then take the shape of a yes–no question about the deal. He might say he did not want to be under anybody’s thumb; he did not want to deliver the speech, not even if Sheikh Mujib himself stood before him begging. Was it his problem that the country had fallen into disarray? If Sheikh Mujib suffered for his own faults, nobody could save him.
I asked if he had thrown the bed sheet away because it was old. He knew we could do lots of things with such a bed sheet; we could use it for darning the quilt, cut it into pieces to create rags, and at the very least, use it as a kitchen curtain. But it was definitely not a big deal, I said; I didn’t mind, and I would buy him a new one when I went to the market next time. In fact, I had not done any shopping except for food in the last few months; I should have walked around the flat and made a list of things we needed. Now that we were doing better financially than when we had started, there was no reason for us to keep dragging our old life along. A new life deserves new elements. I would buy him a pair of those high-lustre, super-soft, wrinkle-free satin bed sheets.
Then one day I saw him wash his punjabi and the Mujib coat, dry them and wrap them in paper. I followed him as he left the flat and walked towards the refugee camp, raising dust under his sandals. I walked fast because he walked fast. I stopped when he stopped. Then I saw him handing over the package to an old, dejected refugee. The refugee unpacked the coat and the punjabi and immediately sat at the street corner to sell them while he stood a little apart from him. In a few minutes a customer bought them. The refugee ran towards the nearby grocery with the bills in his hand, and Nur Hussain took the road home. Now he walked slowly—he had all the time in the world. He was satisfied. He had accomplished the most glorious thing humankind could ever think of with his disgustingly small mind.
Within a couple of days he was in his rags—the clothes he had worn when he came from Gangasagar. He looked impoverished. He looked as if he had never spoken in public; never had that loud, inspiring voice; had never been to Sheikh Mujib’s residence as his guest. He went out at any time, walked without direction, stood or sat anywhere hour after hour watching and thinking. A few times I had seen him actually go into the refugee camp, to talk to people he did not know, and to listen to them attentively. A few times I had seen him come back home late, very late, and then lie down in the dark with his soiled feet. He did not ask if there was any progress in terms of our schedules with Sheikh Mujib. He did not bother to check if I was home, if I was well, if I needed anything. When he cooked, he cooked a lot, but did not sit with me to eat. ‘I’m not hungry now,’ he would say, when I insisted. ‘Maybe later.’ Then immediately after I had eaten, he would go to the kitchen, take food in a bowl, much more than he could eat, and cover it with a plate. The next thing I knew he was out in the street with the bowl, walking fast, moving towards the refugee camp.
I knew to some extent how he felt. Of course, I did. Anyone who had a human heart knew for sure the inglorious hell we were living in. But, I guess, I did not know how deeply he felt it; how seriously the demoralizing scenes of death had affected him. Had he reached the point of delirium? Would he fail to calm his nerves?
I thought it would be wise for me to participate in some humanitarian activities with him, to go among people to talk about their sufferings instead of preaching in Sheikh Mujib’s favour. Just to let him know I was on the same page. These were very unfortunate days for a man with a beautiful mind; I understood that, even though he might notice that I resisted my sense of compassion and refused to encumber myself with other people’s burdens.
In the afternoon I took him to the local market. He walked like an apparition; the wind could sweep him away, he was so thin and weightless. I told him he could buy anything he liked to donate. He only had to consider if it was within our means. What our means were, he had to decide for himself. There was no pressure from my side.
We stood on the pavement, next to the electricity pole, and looked. The market was full of food items, fresh and clean, colourful and expensive, exquisite and exclusive; food from local producers and from abroad, from dealers and black marketeers. But what food to choose, I asked. Choosing the right food was one of the most essential matters in this case. Here I briefly spoke about the eating habits of the starving generation. Did they wait for expensive, delicious food, like those red, succulent strawberries? Did they have any question about where the food came from? In both cases I answered ‘no’ so that he knew we were not there to spend money for the sake of spending it. We were looking to help as many people as possible—something he wanted, something he badly wanted—while staying within our limited means. We must be more tactical and useful than simply charitable in our effort. We would count every bill as if we were buying something for ourselves.
Finally I said it was not up to us to consider if we were generous or miserly. Individuals like he and I were too insignificant; we would not be able to stop people from dying. The famine was of such a massive scale that without proper administrative intervention the situation could only get aggravated. What was required was an enhancement of security and order. That could not be ensured by leaving people to starve. We could feed people one or two meals. We could feed only a few families, if we spent all the money we had earned. That would not be anything in the midst of such endless desperation. We would buy whatever we could, but if we could not do a lot, we should not be unhappy.
He did not buy anything. He had no money on him. I had the money in my wallet. He followed me as I moved from the grocery to the vegetable market to the restaurant. I bought ten kilos of rice packed in half-kilo paper bags, five kilos of beaten rice, cabbages, potatoes, onions, green chillies, bottles of mustard oil and some samosas. I gave him a bag to carry so that he felt involved. Then we hired a rickshaw to the refugee camp. We did not have to distribute the items; refugees of all ages stumbled upon them as soon as we said they were free. They grabbed the rice, tore at the packages, fought over them, hit each other, and yelled at each other. Cabbages rolled on the ground.
Nur Hussain sat on the rickshaw; saying nothing, touching nothing. His eyes were lowered and moist.
That day he did not go out again. But the next day he did.