âBut what?â
âIsnât your son in that group? Doesnât he hang out with them?â
Iqbal suddenly became agitated. He said quite emphatically, âNo, he doesnât. Wouldnât I thrash him with my shoe and break his face if he engaged in such rowdy song and dance? Iâm his father, wouldnât I punish him? Iâm not that kind of a father!â
âHey! Listen, arenât there two TVs in your house? Go and destroy them first. Is there a single house without song and dance nowadays? I believe your wife canât sleep unless she watches her serial! Leave those hellish things behind, and then speak! You are a fine father indeed!â
Iqbal Ostagar did not debate any further. He left, saying in a stage whisper, âComing to me with his fatwa business! Huh! Rubbish!â
Chandraat also saw the womenfolk in soirĂ©e. The unmarried girls from nearby got together, they chatted and gossiped among themselves. And young adults talked about their new clothes. Each year, a garment with a new name arrived in the marketplace. This time around, the market had been captured by the âMadhubalaâ churidar-kameez. Those who couldnât buy that felt a bit inferior, and then rushed home to prove that their own churidar-kameez was no less in any respect. They took out a few clothes from the shelf in the cupboard and then showed them to everyone. They had an exhibition among themselves, of who got how many things, the colours of the garments, their embroidery, price, and so on.
But for how long would they flaunt those clothes? They felt unhappy. After all, they were not permitted to go to the Eid fair. On the morning of Eid, after dispatching all the children and menfolk to the prayers, they began dolling themselves up. They went in a group to visit old friends whom they met once a year. They looked like a carnival of many-hued butterflies. The colourful clothes lent a new dimension to the streets of Sadnahati. Everyone was in a cheerful state of mind. There was feasting in every household. The beautiful mehendi artistry rendered on Chandraat on the hands of the womenfolk drew everyoneâs attention.
Among the womenfolk, everyone was obsessed with clothes. Fulsura suddenly squinted in Riziyaâs direction and asked, âHey Rizi, how many churidar-kameezes did you get?â
âWhy? Just two. Didnât you see them yesterday?â
âNo. Three.â
âWhat? Ask Mama. I only bought two.â
âI saw the packet in Ayanâs hand, you know! He didnât want to show it to me at first.â
And then, in that gathering of so many women, she whispered into Riziyaâs ear, âIt seems to be a very expensive churidar-kameez! Tell me, who gave it to you?â
Everyone sat gazing at them curiously. A look of helplessness was visible on Riziyaâs face. All her secretiveness would be exposed. She felt uneasy. She felt terribly angry with Fulsura. After all, Reshma Bhabi and Fulsura knew about it. When they knew it, where was the need to make an announcement? She somehow managed to halt Fulsura through signs and gestures.
In fact, she had received the churidar-kameez sent by Tahirul just a little while back. She was overwhelmed at once. The light pink was her favourite colour. How did Hujur find out about her preferences? Once she was alone, she had worn it and stood in front of the mirror. She liked how she looked. She had wound the odna around her head like a hijab. And then she told her reflection, âNice, Rizi! You look just like a Hujurâs bibi!â
Riziya knew that if she displayed that churidar-kameez in the gathering of womenfolk today, it would be the cynosure of all eyes. So she kept that a secret.
Could the joy and glow of the holy Eid penetrate into every strata of society? Joyless darkness was supposed to prevail in many lanes and alleys. But it was in order to bring joy to all those places that Islam had provided for giving fitra, or donations to the poor. That was what zakat was given for. But fitra had to be given prior to the Eid prayer. This was the right of the poor and destitute. Each one would get some foodgrains. Although the Muslims of Bengal donated the equivalent value in money, instead of foodgrains.
Reshma was in a crisis now. Nazir didnât really have any money. He could not stitch any longer with half his finger gone. Reshma herself did embroidery work. Nazir did odd jobs for Iqbal Ostagar. He had left home a long time back, to go to Burrabazar, the wholesale market in Kolkata. He would buy about a hundred saris and lungis from there. Iqbal Ostagar would give his zakat tonight itself. But who would want to take the zakat sari? Professional beggars from regions bordering Howrah district arrived there. They came every year. They stood in a queue and collected the zakat. Nazir acted very bossy at this time. He managed the queue, kept a close watch so that no one could collect it twice.
The azan for the Isha prayer at night had sounded a while back. But Nazir had not yet returned. Reshma was anxious. She was anxious because they had not bought anything yet â not even a piece of string. Although clothes had been sent for the children by her parents. She was supposed to send a sari for her aged mother and a panjabi for her father. But when would she go now? The man had failed to be a true man even today. How could Reshmaâs cup of joy be full unless the feeble light of Chandraat lit up her household too!
It was quite late when Nazir returned. He called out from outside, âNilufa! Hey Nilu! Have you fallen asleep?â
The house lights had been turned off. Was there a power cut? A kerosene lamp was burning in one corner of the veranda. When there was no response, he called out, âReshma! Why did you switch the lights off?â
He stepped up cautiously and pushed the door of his house. In the semi-darkness, he saw his children sleeping, but Reshma was sitting like a statue. Nazir went to switch on the light. Then he remembered. Oh no! The electric corporation had cut off their electricity two days ago.
As Reshma was silent even after his arrival, he asked her, âWhatâs happened to you? Looks like youâve been crying!â
Reshma did not reply. After repeated queries, Reshma retorted testily, âDonât you know whatâs happened? Are you a child, huh?â
âTell me, whatâs happened?â
âItâs Eid tomorrow. Tell me which household skips making simui-ruti! What happens to us while youâre running behind rich folks? Werenât you supposed to go to my parentsâ house today? Letâs see what clothes youâve bought. Where are they?â
âClothes? The children have got clothes from their Mamas. You told me that you donât need anything this Eid. And I already have a lungi and a panjabi. Thatâs why I didnât buy anything.â
âA fine father you are! So you donât have to buy the children anything because my brothers have given clothes for them! Did you get a sari for my mother? Do you want to end your self-respect as a son-in-law?â
Nazir smiled a bit now. He came closer and said enthusiastically, âItâs all there, pagli. Iâve brought everything. Come outside, Iâll
show you.â
Nazir almost dragged Reshma outside. Simui, flour, dalda, masalas â it was all there. From the other bag he took out three saris. Two for the elderly folk, of dull colours, the other one very colourful, with a border, a bit expensive. âOne of these is for your mother. The other is for my mother. Go and give it to your Ma first.â
âHow did you buy them? Did you have money?â
âNo. But I didnât buy them! The saris were given by Ostagar. There were some remaining. He gave them to me.â
Hearing that, Reshmaâs face turned glum again. Keeping her voice down, she pointed at the colourful sari and asked, âAnd this one?â
âThatâs for you, dear! How lovely it is! You like it, donât you?â
âSuch an expensive sari! Did you buy it? Tell me the truth, swear on Allah! Where did you get so much money, eh?â
Nazir was silent for a while, his eyes downcast. How could he say where he had got the money from! But on Reshmaâs insistence, he was compelled to say it. âI bought it with Ostagarâs money. He had given it to me to buy one hundred saris. I bought ninety. I bought this sari for you with the money for the remaining ten saris. After all, you get a new sari every year. This year, even though you didnât ask for anything, I was keen. Thatâs whyâŠâ
Now Reshma turned silent. In all these years of family life, she had never had to witness such conduct on her husbandâs part. He had stolen! Blood suddenly rushed to Reshmaâs head. She lost all interest in the sari and flung it away in a single motion. The sari fell on the burning lamp. At once the feebly lit room turned pitch black. Why couldnât the faint light of the new crescent moon reach the room?
On the evening of Eid, Riziya went to Reshmaâs house. She was the only person to whom she could speak her heart. Although she was not educated like Riziya, her experiential knowledge appealed to Riziya. Reshma was busy feeding her infant then. Not seeing her in new clothes, Riziya enquired, âItâs just evening. But you took off your new sari already, Bhabi?â
Noticing her, Reshma welcomed her. She smiled dryly and said, âCome, come, Rizi! Where were you yesterday? You didnât come this side all day!â
âOh, it was just like that. Achchha, whereâs your girl?â
âWhy? Why are you looking for her?â
âHey, wonât she get anything from her Fufu! Isnât it Eid today? I bought her a make-up box. Just a little girl, and loves to doll up! Whenever she comes to my room, she demands that.â
But Riziyaâs banter didnât make Reshma gleeful. She said hoarsely, âThe girlâs poor, and she has fancies!â
Riziya was struck by the tone of Reshmaâs words. What was the matter? She hadnât observed her face so long. Why was Bhabiâs face so gloomy on the day of Eid? Had something happened? Does anyone like to see the people one is fond of looking dejected on a day of joy! So Riziya asked her, âBhabi, tell me whatâs happened to you.â
âWhere, nothingâs happened!â
âAre you hiding something?â
âNot everything can be kept secret, Rizi dear! Can it?â