A few days passed like this. I raised food to his mouth, he ate with gratitude; I raised the glass of water to his lips, he drained it completely in one go, in case I did not offer him water again. I ate whatever I made, then I slept in my room with pills, and he slept in his room, door locked. I always gave him only half the food he needed. I wanted him alive only, not strong, definitely not strong enough to overpower me; and I gave him only enough water to make sure the pills got lost without trace.
Then I noticed tears in his eyes.
They were not for food, I understood, but for the acute smell that had made not only his room but the whole flat unliveable. I felt like vomiting.
Within minutes I unlocked the door, dragged him to the toilet, holding him by the collar. There I threw buckets of water upon him. He lay on the floor, tranquil, his face quivering with every splash. I would untie his hands, I said; he must stay on the floor, his face down, and must not move until I was out of the toilet door. He would wash himself, and change his clothes, then knock on the door, so that I could tie his hands again before taking him to his room. I had the shovel in my hand, I warned him; it was sturdy, heavy, and a good size to use in the small space of the toilet. If he tried to do anything stupid or became violent towards me, I would definitely bring it down upon him and he would have to live with a far more acute smell for the rest of his life. Then I stepped on his neck and untied his hands and quickly ran out and closed the door. He lay on the floor, terrified. A moment of silence; a long moment. Then the sound of water splashing.
His hands were free now. I suspected he would untie his feet and would not come out of the toilet without a fight. Or he would pretend he had no plan to attack me; he would behave politely, speak softly and in a friendly manner, and do as I would expect him to do. But the moment I opened the door, he would jump upon me with all his rage. He could be ruthless, I had seen that. I had seen how he broke everything in the room, everything that he found close to his hands.
I heard his knock in due time. Two mild knocks, as I had advised. And then a pause, after which two distinct knocks again. I told him to open the door. ‘Only a quarter,’ I said. He opened it less than that and extended his timid and shivering hands out before my asking it. ‘Give me the rope,’ I said, ‘give me the end of the rope.’ He bent on the floor, one hand still outside the door, while with the other he threw the rope out. He had it ready before him. It was clean. No mark of blood. No smell of urine. He had washed it like he would have washed his handkerchief.
Then he extended both of his hands up to his wrists through the door. I tied them quickly. I could see the cut on his palm. I wanted to ask if it was painful any more. If the Zam-Buk was not effective, I would buy something else from the pharmacy. But I restrained myself. I did not want to begin an emotional scene before I was confident he could not harm me. I had to be safe before I helped him. I told him to move away from the door. He jumped a few steps back and stood looking at me. I pushed the door open farther and found his feet the way I had left them—tied.
I carried him on my shoulder, sat him on the sofa. There were several cuts in his feet, all open now, red and damp. Some of them had swelled up, the deep ones. Some looked black. I told him to raise his feet on the sofa so that I could examine the cuts better. He did—calmly, slowly. The skin on both sides of the cuts was whitish. That exposed the black line in the middle with a sharp contrast. I cleaned the cuts with cotton, dried them with a towel and covered them all with Zam-Buk.
Then I cleaned his room, removed the quilt, put a new one on the bed, sprayed some bleaching powder on the floor, washed it, and then burnt some incense sticks. I removed the bloodstains from the walls and wiped the walls softly with a warm and wet towel. Once the white smoke with its sweet smell filled the room, I took him to his bed, and placed a pillow against his back so that he could sit comfortably. His face was dry. I poured four drops of mustard oil on my palm and smeared it on his cheeks. Now he looked lively. I combed his hair, but did not bother to give him a Sheikh Mujib look. I trimmed his nails. Then I prepared a full meal for him; rice, fish curry, vegetables, dal and chilli paste with spring onion. I had my full attention on his door, which I had not locked, and which could still be a dangerous outlet for his vengeance against me. An open door might give him the sense that he was free, though he was not free. He might be lulled into thinking he could easily get out. That too would be a mistake. I had the shovel with me all the time. I had kept it next to the hot oven.
Sitting before him, I raised spoon after spoon to his mouth. He ate with great appetite. He ate quietly, his eyes down on the plate. Once or twice he raised his eyes at me for small glances. That was all. He asked me nothing. I explained nothing. Only at night, when I untied his feet, he said, ‘Thank you.’ I did not reply, and locked the door.
That night I had not given him sleeping pills, and I too went to sleep without them. They were no longer necessary. I felt he was coming back to me. Soon he and I would sit together, his hands free, my mind clear. We would forget the past—the past would exist only as an idea with which we had compromised. These few days of suffering, his and mine, would have washed it away. Moina Mia, the militia and Sheikh Mujib would have nothing to do with it. They would not be a part of our world. They would not dictate anything. Let Sheikh Mujib be reincarnated with all the shortcomings of failed leaders. Let Moina Mia sing of him his entire life. Let the militia rage a war against all hungry and disgruntled people because they blamed Sheikh Mujib for their misfortune, and as a result let people die in their thousands. Let the whole country turn into a shameless tent city, never to be vibrant again. Let mothers hang their children, the young starve the elderly and kill them. Let intellectuals become slaves of their own complexes, extraordinarily obscene complexes, because they love to be slaves. We would fight to live outside that insane and chaotic canvas. There must be space for us, a small place, somewhere in the living world.
He would grow into a complete man one day, a wise man, master of his own passions, I thought. He would use his mind creatively, and no longer need to turn to me for help. He would excel in some trade; earn his living by himself without speaking much. He was bright; he could easily acquire some technical knowledge if he wanted to. And I would have a peaceful lifetime, one devoid of dissent against people and against institutions that worked for them. I would not have to brood over my dissatisfactions with life. A Puerto Rican woman would speak in Spanish, a language I would not understand. I would find a quiet, simple, warm-hearted and trustworthy Bengali-speaking woman from one of these neighbourhoods to start a family with. I would buy her wooden earrings, oyster shell necklace, fine cotton saris with lots of embroidery and bottles of aromatic haircare oil. On a moonlit night I would take her on a boat ride on the Buriganga. When the boat would reach far, and the cacophonies of the port would fade, I would sit before her and tell her about this time. The thought of her, I would say, had saved me when I was most disoriented, and I had lived because of her. I would love her sincerely and make her the happiest woman in the world. A man like me could still do a lot of things in this country. I would create my own ideal world little by little.