This had been Sajida’s morning mission – to drive up to Karori after dropping off the girls, for a 10 o’ clock meeting with three women she didn’t know, in order to ask if they were interested in renting out or selling their late mother’s house to a Bangladeshi stranger who’d showed up at their door.
It had in fact been even more absurd and hopeless than that. See if you can keep up. Prompted probably by Abir’s recounting of yet another futile bid they had submitted - their 33rd overall - for a house in Wilton that went for $275,000 above its registered value, Raj, a regular customer at the Victoria Street branch of their restaurant (whom Sajida had never met, because she looked after Newtown), had mentioned to Abir that a place might be coming up for sale on his street in Karori. An elderly neighbour of his had passed away sometime before, and her three daughters, who each lived in a different city overseas (London, Hong Kong and somewhere else), had finally been able to gather in Wellington, first to organise a memorial service for their mother and then to make a decision about her house. Abir had jumped at this half-glimpse of a possibility, at the thought of having a head-start on the competition before any ads appeared, and perhaps especially at the image of the sisters grabbing the chance for a quick sale, eager as they would be to return to their lives and families. Who wouldn’t want to avoid the hassle of a drawn-out sale process, especially if you were three siblings settled overseas and the person who’d showed up was making an incredibly fair offer, very much in line with what places were going for in the area, but without the extra weeks of waiting, the steep estate agent fees, or the prospect of possible return trips to New Zealand?
Of course, this was all Abir talking, as he immediately, and passionately, urged Raj to arrange a meeting with the sisters, while formulating on the spot the very arguments he hoped to present to them.
‘And you must also mention that we are a good Bangladeshi family, of South Asian origin just as they are, running two renowned restaurants in Wellington and with beautiful daughters aged ten and twelve. And that our top priority at this moment, and we’re being entirely frank with you, is to enter the zone for Wellington City High where Runa would be eligible to go from next February. Which is to say – and this is the point to emphasise, Raj – that if a sale seems too big a decision to agree upon after such a recent demise of their beloved mother and with all of them so far away, and so many memories associated with the house in which they too must have grown up, then the sisters need to know that we would also be happy to rent. No pressure at all, you make sure to say; in fact, renting the house to us could buy them precious time in which to plan their next step.’
‘They didn’t grow up in that house. Their mother moved there four years ago, after the death of her husband. Although it still has three bedrooms so that the daughters could visit with their kids.’
‘In that case, our role is to be the temporary custodians of their mother’s memory. You need to exaggerate nothing, Raj. When you call them, you only describe what you see of us and the girls after school every time you visit the restaurant, how they study here and help out in the kitchen. These are the people who will be looking after their mother’s home, another family hoping to build a life with our daughters exactly as their parents did a generation ago.’
Sajida of course hadn’t witnessed any of these exchanges between Abir and their unknown well-wisher, but they had been described and re-enacted for her with painstaking detail at home and in the car. And each of the three times Raj had visited the Victoria Street restaurant during this delicate period – they had just ten days before two of the three sisters departed, leaving one in charge of executing any decisions – his meals had, it went without saying, been on the house.
But then last night, fifteen hours before the all-important meeting which Raj had finally been able to secure, Abir had called Sajida – from his branch to hers, at a time when both of them had customers and were therefore unable to discuss, let alone argue, anything ¬– with the apparently sudden brainwave that she should go alone the next morning, so that the first meeting could be a ‘woman-to-women, mother-to-mothers thing’ (as he put it in Bengali). Here was his chain of ‘logic’: ‘Two of the sisters are mothers, you’re obviously all daughters, and we’re doing this for our daughters. They have just lost their mother. It is genuinely an all-women situation, and they’ll be able to see how much this means to you. Afterwards, of course I’ll come. For the second meeting we’ll even take Runa and Pori along, so that they can see who all this haste is for.’
‘Raj and you came up with this plan together. How is it an all-women situation?’
‘Uff, it will be all-women tomorrow when you’re there. Don’t you see the impact of that? It will show them what kind of family we are, why our daughters’ education is so important to us. Raj told me two of the sisters, including the one who is staying behind, have PhDs. The third is in pharmaceuticals marketing.’
Abir had time to mention that in the middle of an evening shift, but not thereafter to listen to Sajida’s counter-arguments about why they needed to go together. Apparently the new Czech girl had got another order wrong, and had served a chicken tikka starter to a customer who was expecting the tikka masala with its gravy to go with his naan.
***
She’d knocked, been invited in and offered a seat at the dining table where all three sisters gathered around her, while behind them, throughout her stay, a man with an iPad photographed and documented furniture that was apparently all going to an auction house. There were some exquisite things, including the dining set itself, which was made of finely carved wood, probably from Rajasthan. Sajida’s first thought had been – how fine all this would look at the restaurant.
Don’t move them until you’ve heard me out, she wanted to say, but reminded herself: we were expecting the house to be unfurnished. It’s probably better for our offer this way. And Sajida, you can’t ask about the furniture as well this morning, no matter how beautiful, not when you’ve come to talk about the house. You’ll seem ruthless and grasping.
Although as she was sitting down it had hit her more strongly than ever before that she was about to mention a huge sum of money in relation to a house she had just stepped into for the first time, and which she’d recognised from the outside solely because Runa had shown it to them using Street View. What were they doing? They would NEVER buy a restaurant space this way.
Well, say that after you’ve bid for 33 restaurant spaces, Sajida.
In fairness to them, the women heard her out. Raj for his three free meals had mostly primed them accurately. By the by, it turned out that the furniture was from Malaysia, which was also where the girls’ parents had migrated from, as opposed to South Asia as Abir had assumed in his stirring demo speech, just from learning the late owner’s name. Well, only slightly South Asia, because the oldest did say ‘Mum and Dad’s families had been Jaffna Tamils, like a century ago.’
But the sisters were all born and raised here, in Wellington, just up the road in a bigger house, although Sajida didn’t need to be told this. Everything from their accents to ‘Mum and Dad’ made this clear. I really wish you were here, Abir, to see this ‘South Asian all-women’s connection’.
She made sure to mention the top-priority zoning issue regarding Wellington City High as well as the option of renting. I’m totally following the script, Abir, Sajida thought, as she pulled out a restaurant card with their phone numbers. I even said the number 33, just as you instructed.
‘Please let us know if you come to any decision, or, if you want to talk more, do come for a meal to either restaurant, any time except Sunday afternoon.’
From the moment I saw them, I had expected them to be snobs, Sajida acknowledged to herself afterwards in the car. And if she put herself in their shoes, some stranger from across town eager to get their foot in the door before anyone else having heard about her mother’s death – how would she have reacted?
In fact, not once had Abir suggested that she begin by asking whether they were even thinking of selling the place, and it hadn’t occurred to her either.
But the sisters had seemed friendly enough while she spoke, and afterwards they said that Raj’s multiple phone calls had actually helped them reach a decision, for which they were indirectly grateful to Abir and Sajida. They had realised that at least for the immediate future they were neither ready to sell nor rent out the place, and had instead reached a compromise arrangement. They were going to look for a tenant who needed the house only for the next ten months, because they would like to return to Wellington with their families in January, gather here for a few weeks next summer from London, Hong Kong and Vancouver (that was the third place).
And before Sajida could respond to this, the Hong Kong one who was the middle sister added that luckily, just this morning, their next-door neighbour had rung to say one of his best friends needed somewhere to stay for the rest of the year before heading off to travel in South America around Christmas. Which would be perfect timing.
‘It wouldn’t really have worked for a family, would it, to have to vacate your home within ten months, and not to know what our longer-term plans will be,’ London offered by way of consolation. She was the oldest. Vancouver had disappeared a few minutes ago, apparently to help the furniture-lister.
‘Which means we need to thank you, because your approach helped us reach a decision, otherwise you can imagine – an endless round of conference calls on Skype, and when are we ever all awake and available at the same time?’ This was London again; of her friendliness there could be no doubt.
Hong Kong wanted to know ‘But what’s so special about Wellington City High? Where are the girls zoned to go just now?’
‘Actually South Wellington High School is fine, but Kiwi parents who have grown up here have mentioned to us several times – try to get into Wellington City if your priority is academics. They are the ones who suggested renting something temporarily if we have to.’
Hong Kong saw fit to mention at this point that all three of them had attended the private girls’ school in Karori. London more sensitively stepped in to say that these were big problems in England as well, with parents resorting to some desperate measures to be in line for their preferred schools, but that in her opinion, if Sajida and Abir liked their present house, they should stay where they were, because ‘in any case, the most important thing is the home environment, isn’t it? That’s where learning is truly reinforced.’
Sajida nodded, and had a fleeting picture of Runa and Pori’s evenings at one of the tables in the Victoria Street restaurant. They certainly did some studying there, with Abir supervising in between looking after customers, but it probably wasn’t London’s image of an ideal home environment.
It was as Sajida was getting up that she noticed for the first time what must have been their mother’s portrait, on a coffee table right beside where she had slipped off her shoes. Would mentioning that earlier have made a difference?
Slightly in a trance she spoke her first lines at this meeting that had not been scripted.
‘My mother is entirely bedridden in Bangladesh. She has Alzheimer’s and failing kidneys. I need to go to her, but we have this second restaurant now to raise funds for the new house, and for my mother’s care and treatment. I’m very sorry for your loss.’
Hong Kong and London commiserated (they did have names – coincidentally all beginning with S – which Sajida had failed to latch on to and had been counting on asking Raj if the meeting went anywhere). Vancouver, who’d turned up at the door, said Mum too had suffered in her last few months. Near the end she hardly ate.
They stood at the doorstep as Sajida walked to her car. Even though she had doubts about it, before she got in she asked when the furniture auction would be.
‘Oh, this ghastly stuff?’ London had laughed. ‘We just want it out of the house. This was all Mum and Dad. If you came back next week you’d see how large and light the rooms really are. These brothel-like curtains are going too.’
‘Within the next two weeks,’ Vancouver answered her question. ‘I have your number. I can message you the details.’
Sajida thanked them and got into the car. If she mentioned this furniture sale, Abir would almost certainly use it as a pretext to call once more. She should let him have that chance, even if she still couldn’t describe the house beyond the living room.
***
It was the corner grove that made her stop; she’d seen nothing else at first beyond the initial rise of the street. She had been daydreaming while driving that one day Runa and Pori would be settled in London and Vancouver, in which case would she and Abir choose to remain in Wellington, or return at least for part of each year to Pabna? The car clock said 10.31; she didn’t need to be at the restaurant for another hour. Gulabji, the Newtown chef, knew she might be late this morning. This had been arranged in the hope of a successful discussion, but she’d come out in under twenty minutes, and was now on her way to Victoria Street to file her report with Abir.
On the left-hand corner of that last side road were three coconut palms! Not the usual native tree ferns with their deceptively similar trunks; no, those fronds and the hanging fruit were unmistakable. But also, around them and leading up the side road, Sajida had noticed several other trees and bushes that looked equally out of place here and yet were extremely familiar to her – jaba (hibiscus), krishnachura (no idea what that was called in English), bougainvillea.
She had hurriedly indicated and pulled over into a space twenty metres down Glenmore St, because, to put it simply even if it sounded strange, somebody’s garden in the middle of Wellington had suddenly transported her to Bangladesh! Someone, probably from South Asia, or else Indonesia or Malaysia, or perhaps somewhere like Fiji or Samoa, which were also quite warm as far as Sajida knew, had succeeded in creating in this unlikely climate a little spot straight from their homeland.
It was while checking the road before getting out that another possibility came to her. The Botanic Gardens were directly across the street: this might well be their initiative, to plant in the vicinity some of the countless seeds they held from around the world. Or, might some seeds have blown over and somehow flourished just in this corner?
Whatever the reason, Sajida thought as she pulled out her phone to take a picture, she wanted to have a moment to savour this magical feeling. They hardly ever passed through this part of town, but probably other passersby who were also from hot countries were routinely reminded of home going past this particular grove. And if it was a small extension of the Botanics, then they needed to visit the main gardens as soon as possible, the next free Sunday when there wasn’t an open home to attend. Because Abir too would love this sense of closing, then reopening his eyes and not quite believing what was still there! There might be a whole area across the street devoted to tropical plants. How come none of their friends or customers had mentioned it before?
But what happened next was so astonishing that at first Sajida forgot to record anything on her phone. Without thinking about it, she had walked a few metres up the footpath along the side road, which, after an initial steep portion, flattened and broadened considerably, and now from its crest, she discovered that the road led to what looked like a dark green pond up ahead, that was fringed by coconut palms all the way around and a few banana trees as well, exactly as a pond would be in a village back home.
How was this possible? This time Sajida turned around to be reassured that New Zealand was still within walking distance, the busy main road she expected to see thirty metres behind her in chilly, windy Wellington situated far from the tropics - Glenmore Street, on which if she had gone in the other direction, she would have arrived at the former Chinese embassy and the main entrance to the Botanics. How could such a landscape be here? How could a single spot in the shade of a big hill receive enough heat to become Bangladesh?
Yes, Bangladesh, and not Indonesia or Fiji, she now felt confident of saying, because two further surprises had only just become apparent, in rapid succession, that exceeded even the pond and all the vegetation.
Up here, along the flat, wide portion of this impossible cul-de-sac that began in a Wellington Sajida could still turn around and confirm – a green Metlink bus went past right then, and there was the fence of the Botanics – but somehow ended in rural Sirajganj or Pabna, the houses too weren’t the usual Thorndon cottages of Glenmore Street or the other side roads up ahead. (They had attended two open homes in the area, for a flat and a cottage, both turning out to be three-bedroom only in name, but they’d been within walking distance of Wellington City High). No, what Sajida was taking in with disbelief on either side of her were huts of mud and thatch, partially hidden behind all the lovely, thick foliage, but so much like home that even most of home wasn’t like this anymore. This was the Bangladesh of Sajida’s childhood, of folktales, children’s books and songs, a village of exactly the sort she often wished Runa and Pori could stay in during their short, rushed, usually bi-annual trips home. And, as if to confirm her sense of stepping into the past she noticed just then that the road she was standing on was no longer paved, and hadn’t been beyond the opening few metres down at the turn-off, and also that further ahead on the right-hand edge of the pond was a woman in an everyday sari doing her washing, as though this was simply what one did at 10.40 on a Wednesday morning in central Wellington.
The woman, possibly Sajida’s age or younger, was squatting facing the pond, and at first Sajida wanted to flee. She even took a few backward steps, but then stopped, looked around to see if anyone was watching her from inside one of the huts, and once more took out her phone. Her first thought was to call Abir, but she decided against speaking loudly just then. That could wait; she’d call him from the car. Right now, the priority was to record, before it all disappeared, before the morning became normal again. As she moved the camera downwards from the houses and trees before her, she realised that even the soil here was dusty and dry, as it would be in March at home! Hé Allah.
And yet, I’m not feeling any warmer, was Sajida’s very next thought, as she completed a slow full circle of filming to take in everything around. Which means this must still be Wellington, otherwise the sun would already be unbearable.
Vancouver, London and Hong Kong had had recycling today, she also recalled as she filmed. Their black and yellow bin had been on the pavement along with a rubbish bag. She switched off the camera and looked around to follow up this odd thought. No, not a single wheelie bin on this Wellington street, nor were there any cars. She could still hear vehicles going up and down Glenmore Street, she thought, sounding like a far-off sea; and there her own car key was, in her handbag, where she had put it less than five minutes ago. But not a single home-owner (or rather, hut-owner) on this street seemed to possess a car, which was exactly as it would have been in the rural Pabna of her mother’s childhood.
Playing back the footage she had just recorded had a calming, strengthening effect on Sajida, its mere existence on her phone, a forty-five second clip that confirmed through replication this unbelievable scene she had wandered into. Of course she would speak to that woman. It was the most natural thing to do, and the only way for her questions to be answered. How straightforward this option suddenly seemed, and how absurd her thought of running away a couple of minutes before. Fifteen steps, and one question in Bengali, and everything would become clear.
The woman didn’t turn around even when Sajida was directly behind her.
‘Achcha, can I go to Karori this way,’ she asked, although what Sajida had wanted to confirm was what country they were in. But at the last moment it seemed too weird a question to spring on someone, as though it was Sajida who had just landed from outer space. In any case, wouldn’t this much more normal query, posed in Bengali, clarify everything she sought to know?
‘You can, but it’s a roundabout way with ups and downs. And there are many steps,’ the woman replied in Bengali as fluent as Sajida’s. She was holding a man’s shirt from which she had been wringing out the water.
Sajida was trying to hide her astonishment, process the meaning of this response, and decide what to say next all at once, because her speaking Bengali and yet knowing the way to Karori meant not one thing, but two.
They were in Bangladesh and in Wellington at the same time!
Unless a group of Bangladeshis had managed to recreate village life from back home in this corner of Thorndon, and chose to live this way. But that was impossible, and she and Abir would surely have heard about it.
The woman too had been sizing Sajida up, although she didn’t look unfriendly. She was younger as well, which gave Sajida some confidence.
‘Where are you coming from?’
‘Just back there,’ was all Sajida could vaguely say.
‘Who are you looking for?’
‘No … no one. I was merely going past. I, we … are in fact looking for a house, to be near my daughters’ school.’ Before the woman had a chance to reply, Sajida added ‘Do you know if there are any homes available here?’
The woman thought for a while, then said there was nothing she could think of ‘in this neighbourhood’, but where was Sajida actually from?
‘Uh, Pabna, Munshiganj, Wellington. I have lived in all these places. But now Rongotai, near the airport. Do you know Wellington well?’
‘A little. I don’t go out that often. But the best way to go to Karori is definitely up that main road. Do you want me to show you?’
‘No, thank you. I know that way. I wondered if there was a short cut. But tell me, if I come back here tomorrow, will you still be here?’
‘If it’s not raining, probably. I can ask my husband this afternoon if he knows of any vacant houses.’
The woman got up off her haunches, gave the shirt she was holding a couple more squeezes, then threw it into a tin pail Sajida hadn’t noticed. Now she sat herself down on a flat rock so that she could face Sajida, who stood a few feet away.
‘But I don’t think you’ll like it here,’ she added, smiling. Sajida felt sure she was referring to her jacket, jeans, and shoes.
For the third time, or maybe more, since they had begun speaking, the same strange thing happened inside Sajida. Everything she’d wanted to ask was intended to be subtle and indirect, yet each question that came out of her mouth was almost unimaginably blunt. Harsh, abrupt, terribly phrased. Anyone might take offence at such provocations. What if the woman yelled out in anger to her neighbours?
‘Achcha, have I died? Is this paradise?’
Thankfully, that made her laugh.
‘That you like the place is good to know, but no, you haven’t died.’
‘Are you my mother?’ Again! This was worse than rash. The woman would shortly call for help, to protect herself from a mad person!
But she had evidently decided to humour Sajida as the safest way to see her off.
‘Do I resemble her?’
Then Sajida was proved wrong once more, because the woman asked her if she would like to sit down for a while inside her house. And it was Sajida who refused, who was afraid and said ‘No, I better leave,’ who turned half her body towards Glenmore Street as she spoke.
‘Then come back another day. Bring your daughters with you.’
‘There are no free days besides Sundays, and Sundays go by endlessly searching for a house.’
Sajida’s excuse was genuine, something she might say almost out of reflex to any new acquaintance. The woman raised her hand to say goodbye.
‘I will come one Sunday. Abir can go by himself to a few viewings. But, will you really still be here?’
‘Where will we go? That’s my house, if I’m not here,’ and she pointed to Sajida’s left, to a hut behind a banana grove.
‘I will definitely come. But I’d better go now, as the restaurant will open shortly.’ Finally Sajida was saying things that she recognised, that were normal, that she might have said to a friend on the phone, and as she spoke, she realised that she no longer felt afraid. ‘This was wonderful. I was going past, and I stopped to take a look, and it’s been incredible.’
‘Bring your daughters soon,’ the woman replied. ‘The lychee season is coming. They can have as many as they like.’
‘Certainly. Then there will be mangoes,’ Sajida said, also with a laugh, again without expecting to, but this time with no embarrassment.
‘And I’ll bring along some food as well. You must try my cooking,’ she added just before waving and turning around.
Sajida had already taken a few steps when she remembered the supply of restaurant cards she was carrying for the morning’s meeting. She walked back to the woman, who had begun to wring a vest, and placed the card on the rock she had been sitting on.
‘You can also visit me whenever you like,’ Sajida said. ‘I am always at the Newtown branch.’
An earlier version of ‘Out of Zone’ was published on the website Juggernaut (2017).
Rajorshi Chakraborti is an Indian-born novelist, essayist and short-story writer. He is the author of six novels and a collection of short fiction, including, most recently, the novel Shakti that appeared in 2020. He lives in Wellington with his family.