Fiction

Hanufa's Day

Rubana Huq

“Nanu, ektu deri koira jan”-- the five year old grandson of Hanufa Bua urged her to go to her “khalammar basha” a little later than usual. Khalammar Basha was the house Hanufa worked at, as a part time cleaner-cook-counselor. There would be times when she would need to massage the moral spine of the household members; and there would be times when she would need to soothe them, on an as-when-if basis. Hanufa bua's job description could really be anything starting from a cleaner down to a soothsayer, psychic, orthopaedician, masseuse, chiropractor, and of course, a listener. In Khalamma's huge residence, there was always work, like it or not. In simpler term, in Khalamma's huge-space- heavy clutter, Hanufa could never be sacked. After all, there would always be dirt peeking from the antiques and the reproduction pieces. There would always be some callously crumpled papers on the floor in spite of Khalamma's multiple bins to trash them into, in spite of multiple storage boxes to compartmentalize the family members' compulsions. After all, there would at least be one of the “apas” wanting space to trash the torn papers from some practice tests; there would at least be one “bhaiya” demanding closet space for the mini toiletries he had collected from all those years of flying; there would also be another who would insist on a space which would have a neat, minimalist look padded with max-minimum components; then there would surely be khalu-abba who would need an extra hundred square feet of shelf space for storing reports he had received from going to unlimited, useless seminars with fresh, untouched, intact giveaway folders that most NGOs and think tanks print with donor money.

Hanufa wondered how she was to take care of all the chores and return quickly to Bashar, her grandson and spend a good part of her Eid day with him. After all, the papers on the floor would be waiting for her along with the newest toiletries from the last flight the night before; there would also be an extra report of the brainstorming iftar sessions just from the day before; and God forbid, if the youngest was in a delusional mode, then Hanufa would take on her newest role. Counselling the fourteen-year-old was a whole new game altogether and would cost her a whole afternoon.

“Ki hoilo tomader baper? Moshjid galo na?” (Why didn't your father go to the mosque?) The 90-year old, ever-panting and ever-spirited dad complained about his son, Khalu-abba, skipping his Eid morning prayer every year. Khalu-abba loved skipping the routine. For him, taking the effort to go to the mosque for prayers would mean sacrificing two full hours of precious time. Who on earth would even waste minutes when one only had a very short life to live? Hearing his dad complain, he quietly drove his own car out, an old Beamer. He had his cell phone glued to his ears. Unsure whether he would use his Bluetooth or simply drive with one of his hands, he decided on the latter. After all, it was Eid and there would be no traffic on the tiny, ever-congested roads of Baridhara. He then dialed one number after the other. None picked up. Dah…they were all at the Eid Jammat. And who would even think of skipping a Jamat, which came packed with the best possible noble opportunity of meeting up with all the “who's who” club members. Reversing his decision, he drove down to the nearest mosque, only to discover that the Jamaat was over and hence all he could do was simply engage in the Eid Kolakuli (a Muslim tradition of embracing one another on Eid occasions), spend an extra minute chatting about politics, and then spontaneously inviting a few of the socialites home for chitchat later that evening. Well, he did all that and then finally when he decided to let go of the last pair of the arms of the last Mr. Someone, under the breath, he muttered: “Shala chorer beta chor. Deshtarey khailo.” (All these are thieves! They are robbing the country!) To khalu-abba, in spite of all the hugging and sucking up to the elite practice of his, he liked calling them names. After all, he needed them and then again he needed them not. Coming out of the mosque, he rushed back home. Assured of a credible timing, he went and touched his dad's feet: “Eid Mubarak, Abba.” “Koi gela?” (Which mosque did you go to?), asked his dad, mischievously curious about his son's jammat choice. Now that was a tough call. “Why Abba! Where else could I have gone but to our Baridhara one?” Khalu-abba lashed back at him fast. It worked. Dadabhai shut up and continued making calls to his sisters and the rest of the 80-year old cousins of his, only to hear that seven out of the ten he dialed were already turning in their graves, a news his children had carefully hidden from him. “Bolo ki…kobey galo? Aharey! Jaitey hobey shokkol kei!!” Aha…When did he pass away? We all have to die one day, you know.

Sure, dadabhai. It was easy for you to say so as with the slightest of sneeze, you took the next flight out to Singapore. Hanufa pitied this old man for having lived for as long as he had. What would he gain by an extra breath? Dadabhai's table was all set up, with fresh linen on top, yet cluttered with the stained old porcelain from a million years ago with the freshly cooked Shemai topped with a good dash of generously sprinkled artificial sweetener. The artificial flowers sitting on top of the plastic pots did his décor no justice, yet he would not have them removed. Those were bought by his boromia's amma, dadi, who apparently had impeccable tastes in everything, starting from politics down to cuisine. How could he just throw them away, just like that??

Hanufa went in to pay her respects to the old man only to realize that he had fallen asleep, sitting on his old, towel clad reading chair with his mouth gaping wide, an instant invitation site for the insects. She rushed to his rescue with the morning newspaper rolled in her hand. Alas! It was too late. A fly had already taken control and had discovered the pleasure route. It was flying in and out of dadabhai's mouth. Where were dada's attendants, those who always pledged to stand by the old man's side? Helplessly, Hanufa left dada's side and reconciled with the reign of the flying invaders, retreating into her work area, to be faced with a different conversation this time…

“Rohigyas in Ramadan misery…no,no,no…that definitely doesn't sound right. It's too much alliteration backing a sensitive cause! As it is, we are running this against the establishment and then on top of that, we are making sexier story headings along with enticing by-lines. Na…hocchey na. Mar khabo amra”: the last bit was the only part Hanufa understood. Her boro apa was talking to her best office mate, Shafiq about her disappointment about a newspaper story. That much she knew for sure. But what about the Rohingyas? Hanufa had spent her last couple of days watching her latest acquisition, her 12 inches wide television, bought by her eldest son Moshiur who worked as a peon for a buying house. All the TV reports mentioned the helplessness of the Rohingyas while Hanufa found herself wondering whether Bangladesh could actually help them. After all, they were helpless, weren't they? Hadn't her neigbour helped her when she was short of cash last year? Could Rahima afford to bail her out, could she? No. But then she did! Almost as an afterthought, Hanufa snapped at herself, “How silly, they are talking about 300,000 people and not one Hanufa!”

Boro Apa sensed Hanufa's curiosity and tapped her shoulder. “Bua, thik achen?” Wondering if she was ok, Boro Apa decided to give her little Eidi (a small amount of money given as a blessing) for Hanufa. “Dhoren, matro eksho taka.” Hanufa accepted her Taka 100.00 Eid gift from her Boro Apa and waited for her ironing instructions. Eventually the instructions came and she was to iron a red kameez. Her Boro Apa would definitely look lovely in red. But who was she going out with? With Shafique bhai in his old Corolla?

Yes…that seemed to be the plan. How would she now sneak her out of the house? Khalamma would kill her! But, wait… Boro Apa did not seem to need her help this time. She seemed to have planned all of it on her own. She was going out for a cup of coffee with Shafiq bhai, right before the eyes of everyone…

Khalamma walked in, “Koi jao?” (Where are you to?) Apa looked at her mum and said, “ To a coffee shop, Amma.” “Kar shathey?” “Ma, please don't sound like the mum in the Bangla movies and ask about who I am going out with!” To this Khalamma said, “Ki bhabey jaccho?” At this, Hanufa's boro apa lost her cool and said, “ This is it, amma. Are you going to ask me for the model number of his car? Face it. His dad isn't rich and no, he doesn't drive a Ferrari. He has a plain white Corolla, which is just the right colour and just the right size for me. Happy?”

“Told you api. The best defence is offence”, chirped the little birdie who went by the name of Nahar, her fourteen-year old choto apa. The sisters winked at each other and suddenly realized that they had a third party watching them, understanding their plot. But Hanufa had no understanding of the most used words in the current universe: 'offence' and 'defence'. To her, they had the same ring and as far as she was concerned, they sounded the same, but whatever the words were, they had helped her boro apa go on a date.

Nahar turned around and showed off her new outfit to Hanufa. She was definitely staying indoors. Someone had to stay home to put Papa and Ma's minds to rest. The children in the household called their parents by different names. Boro Apa called them, Baba and Amma; choto apa Papa and Ma. Bhaiya called them, Abbu and Ammu. And Hanufa of course, called them Khalamma and Khalu-abba. They all were different, yet all meant the same.

Hanufa's mobile rang. Embarrassed about her loud ringtone, she apologized and was stopped by choto apa: “Arey Bua, thamen to. Phone dhoren.” Assured by Nahar, Hanufa dared to take the call.

“Nanu, nanu…. Ami garitey!” On the other end of the line, her little grandson sounded ecstatic. He rambled on and made no sense when he said that he was out for a spin on a “shada gari”, a beautiful white car.

The marble beneath Hanufa's feet felt like home.

“Bua, cha dao. Mehman eshechey”, screamed Khalamma. Hurrying off to the kitchen, Hanufa made tea for all the heavy sari-clad guests in the living room, accompanied by their equally decked up husbands with their pot bellies getting too big for their imported Indian sherwani sizes and their children with their costumes screaming of the price tags, their red-soled shoes having three or more layers of foundation, and bigger than life eye shades. They all looked and smelt like the same. But they weren't exactly Hanufa's story…

Hanufa's story was of an early afternoon with a brighter disc of red, hot sun playing on her dadubhai's (grandson) hair, away from the marble and closer to the earth, neatly folded away in a tin trunk filled with her hand-stitched kantha (quilt), enough to save them, even on an Eid night, when the rain would seep through the cracks of their roof. Next month onward, Hanufa would be moving out of her 'property' and not be threatened by floods, thunder or eviction notices. Thanks to the boom, the real estate agents were visiting on the second day of Eid to sign the papers: she is giving them her half a katha of land over to them, against which she will get two of the apartments out of the eight they will be building.

Hanufa, the flatwalli (owner of a flat), would still be working for her apas. Some things would never change…just like the fate of the displaced Rohingyas, just like the colour of Shafiq's car, just like Khalu-abbu's PR skills bordering on greed, just like Khalamma's screams spelling of impatience and incompatibility, and just like her apas belonging to the world they were not born into…

“Bua, ice cream? Jabey naki?”
“Jabo”, said Hanufa. Some days were just meant to be different. Today surely was…

Rubana Haq is a poet and a columnist.