The Wings Over The City – The Story Of Shimu (Part Two)

 

Finally, Shimu had managed to find a job as a maid with a family living in Nikunja2, near the international airport.

Every morning she woke up before dawn, prayed, ate quickly rice and dal* with eggs, greeted her mother and took a CNG to go to work. Her father went out first of all.

It took her about two hours to get to work.

The family with whom she served lived on the fourth floor of a building of retired military and civil servants. It was a quiet place, much more than the chaotic area where she had grown up.

Shimu spent her time mostly with her lady; she washed clothes, cleaned the floor, ironed and did the chores in the kitchen.

 

She was not tiring, she spent at least twenty minutes squatting on the boti*, cutting vegetables and fruits that the lady then cooked.

They were kind and often made her leave before the scheduled time, knowing that it would take her about two hours to get home in rush hour traffic.

Her favorite time was when she had to go and hang clothes on the terrace, even if she had to walk up two flights of stairs with the heavy tub of wet clothes. Every evening, at her bed, her right side ached on which she rested the tub for leverage, but she could enjoy the view from above for a moment without anyone noticing.

 

While Tushar, as expected, had joined the construction company where his father worked.

After three months in another area he had managed to get assigned to the Kilkhet construction site, not far from where Shimu worked.

Whenever he could, he borrowed the bright red tank Honda Hero Splendor from his older brother and drove Shimu to work.

They walked along the Shagufta New Road and then plunged into the colorful ocean of souls and smog of the streets of Dhaka.

Before taking her to Nikunja2, Tushar proudly showed her the huge gray pylons that stood like big T's planted on the ground, on which one day it would whiz by the metropolitan train.

 

“You know, I work up there. It's not very high but I think you'd like to see people going to the market or walking along the highway.” He told her with almost the same enthusiasm that he knew she would have sat on one of those pylons.

Shimu nodded, even as time began to erode the naivety and candor of her childhood. The routine and the impossibility of imagining a different future was like oil in water which made the feathers of its wings viscous and heavy.

Tushar felt it, so as soon as he could he tried to shake her wings, to free them from that oil.

 

He often stayed in the area when he first finished the work on the construction site; they met near one of the iron piers that led from the opposite side of the Dhaka-Mymensingh Highway, crossed the open construction sites with their nose up, observing the imposing pillars as if they were mysterious megalithic dolmens or rained from who knows what constellation extraterrestrial.

They reached Lake Kilkhet and sat on the shore to watch the planes take off or land at the airport.

Tushar saw that this made Shimu melancholy. Although she was happy to sit there and she loved watching the planes, there was a bitter aftertaste there, a thorn that remains under the skin that does not bleed but is felt.

 

“Maybe one day you too will climb on top of one of those tin birds, you're Pakhi too, aren't you?” The boy said smiling as he threw small pebbles on the water to make them bounce.

“Maybe yes, if I had studied. Maybe I would have gone to take a Master’s degree in London, or Paris, who knows...”

Shimu answered looking the pebbles run along the water leaving concentric circles.

“The truth is that we are more like birds locked in CNG cages than Monpura's bird,” Shimu said following the white line of another airplane.

“We are forced to struggle on this asphalt, we get excited, we collide to walk on the sidewalks like sardines, we fight over who has to get on a rickshaw first. Look at my brother, he's taken a bad turn now, fomenting strikes, fighting for an extra $10 on his salary, while my mother breaks her back since she was a child. For what? For me washing the underpants of a woman I don't even know, and I will do it until someone marries me and I start washing his underpants; and for my brother who wants to have that factory shut down, while continuing to sew underpants for some young student in Paris who doesn't know me or my mother, or even less that we exist and where Mirpur is stuck on the world map.

“We are like the circles on the water or the trail of white smoke in the sky: the stone and the airplane exist and go away, we... poof!” She said, as she closed and opened her fingers like something exploding.

“We dissolve without a trace...”

"Allah! How pessimistic you are! I won't take you to see the airplanes anymore!” Tushar snapped angrily, sulking.

Shimu turned to look at him and smiled. “Come on, sorry! In the end, I have my pakhi pagol*!”

The boy was immediately happy with the change in her mood, jumped to his feet and went back to singing imitating the wings circling her, making the girl laugh to the point of having to hold her belly with the hands.

 

 

At home the atmosphere was increasingly tense. Her brother Shariful was agitated even when he ate, had red eyes and constantly talked on the phone in a low voice, or suddenly screamed and railed.

Her father preferred to stay long in the mosque.

The younger brother was now plagiarized by Shariful and this grieved her mother. Ishrat prayed every day for the fate of her children, but in her heart she knew that things would not turn out well.

One evening her brother was in his room with three friends from the union organization, they were smoking and discussing an impending strike.

Her mother peppered the cha* and placed it on a tray to take into the room.

Shimu told her mother that it was best to carry it herself, but Ishrat didn't like those boys seeing her daughter too closely.

They stood in front of the ajar door and listened to Shariful speaking excitedly.

“We must hit our factory! We can't take it anymore! Have you seen how the government and industrialists responded to the United Garments Worker’s Federation's request to raise our wages from $ 38 a month to $ 100? With 7 dollars and 60 cents increase! 7 dollars! Are we aware of almsgiving? While thanks to our blood and sweat, textiles represent 80% of national exports!

And if we go on strike or go to the street, what do they do? They arrest us! They shoot us!”

Shariful yelled as he banged his fist on the table as his friends cheered him on.

His mother took courage and entered, placing the tray of cha on the low table, while his brother's friends bowed their heads out of respect.

“Thank you, ammu,” her son said in a hoarse voice as he smoothed his tousled hair.

Then his mother adjusted the ulna to cover her hair, looked at those young boys and in a faint voice she said.

“But if you close the factory, how will the mothers and fathers who work there be able to feed their children? As I have done with you for over twenty years...”

Shariful brought his fiery eyes to her face.

He was about to scream when Shimu rushed in and took her mother away like she was a child in danger, while she stared hard at her brother: “Don't try to answer badly to our mother.” Shimu said in a firm voice as she closed the door behind them.

She led her mother into the kitchen and gave her a glass of water.

“Leave him alone, ammu. He'll kill you if the factory hasn't done it all these years.”

Then she set up the kitchen and went into the yard to wash her clothes, as usual.

 

That morning Tushar accompanied her on his motorcycle. She handed him the helmet and went to work.

Occasionally she paid attention to the news on television of the strikes taking place.

She went home locked in the CNG cage because Tushar would finish late.

She was in the yard washing her dress when she heard a commotion coming from inside the house. Turbulent voices, crying.

She dropped everything and ran inside with the presentiment that misfortune had come to hit her family, thinking of her brother and in the heart hoping that her younger brother wasn't involved.

But she was blown away when she saw Tushar's mother crying in her mother's arms, while her friend's elder brother stood petrified next to them, his helmet still in his hand.

“Ammu...? What...?” Shimu asked in a faint voice and cold blood.

“Tushar... He's in the hospital.” Her mother could barely say as she struggled to contain her gut crying.

Shimu's heart was crushed by mangrove roots.

The brother walked over to her.

“He was climbing on one of the pylons when he slipped and fell over four meters, hitting his head. Luckily he was wearing a safety helmet, but he suffered fractures and now he is....”

His voice choked and he tried to hold back the tears.

“Where is it? Which hospital?” Shimu asked with her eyes full of tears.

“At Kurmitola General Hospital.”

Shimu saw the helmet and told him without hesitation. “Take me to him; please.”

They ran on motorcycles, darting through the ranks of cars as motionless as stones. The horns, the voices, the mufflers came to Shimu like hushed whispers from the helmet and concern.

 

She felt her heart pounding on Tushar's brother's back.

Arriving in the intensive care room the nurse stopped them at the door, saying they could not enter.

She opened the pink curtain a little from inside and Shimu pressed her face and hands to the glass, looking at the bed on which her friend lay, full of tubes and surrounded by machinery.

The glass fogged up immediately.

The brother was to her right.

“He's in a coma...” he said.

 

Every day Shimu went to the hospital. She couldn't even work well; she had confided in her mistress and she often allowed the girl to go out an hour early to visit him.

The nurse had let her in.

Shimu, at first had not had the strength to see him with his eyes closed, the respirator, the tubes in his nose, with all those machines around. She had almost fainted.

The next day the same nurse, Tahera, had given her a white plastic chair beside her bed.

“Sometimes listening to the voice of someone you love helps to come out of a coma.” She said smiling.

Shimu didn't have time to object, troubled by that word “love”, she wanted to tell her that he was her best friend, but Tahera had already left the room.

Only the BEEP... BEEP... of the machine to which Tushar was connected.

“I'm Pakhi...” she could only say this as she stared at him into closed eyes.

When Shimu came home she was more and more tired.

Her mother forced her to eat something. Her brother also seemed to have calmed down and came to ask her every night how Tushar was, if there were any improvements. She shook her head.

She went into the courtyard, curled up on the iron tub with the salwar kameez in the soapy water.

As she scratched with the soap she heard a ticking.

She looked up at the red brick wall and saw a small bird with brown and black feathers hopping on the edge of the wall near the branches of the tree.

Shimu went back to wash her dress, spread it on the line and collapsed in a very tired sleep after the evening prayer.

The next day she went back to the hospital. She asked Tahera if he had woken up, but the nurse shook her head.

Shimu went to sit in the white chair.

“You told me I would have liked to sit on those pylons, but now I have no intention of approaching them anymore.”

She sat with her body to the side of the bed, the eyes on Tushar's hand out of the blue sheet, the oximeter at his index finger, as she rolled the edge of her ulna around the fingers.

“They started the strike in the factory, you know? One day my brother will end up in prison...”

Shimu took courage with each visit. A few months had already passed.

She sat for hours telling everything that was going on.

“But not to me, I continue to wash underwear.”

She said smiling as her right hand stroked Tushar's on the sheet.

In the evening as soon as Shimu went out into the courtyard with the dress rolled up in her hand, she looked at the bird that did not go away from the branches of the tree. She whistled at it; the bird jerked its head, scuttled from the branch to the edge of the wall.

The next day, sitting in the usual chair, the girl took out a straw-colored bag.

“I bought jelapi*, you like them so much.” She exclaimed, pulling the round orange sweets out of the paper.

Tahera entered the control room.

Their voices were interspersed with the machine's BEEP.

Shimu offered the jelapis to the nurse.

“How is he?” She asked her.

Tahera looked at the liquid in the IV and smiled: “I think he is better. Just to smell this perfume, mmmm... I would open my eyes in a heartbeat!”

Shimu nodded vigorously, smiling, chewing on the crunchy pastry.

When the nurse came out and closed the door, she brought her face close to Tushar's. She whispered.

“I miss my pakhi pagol so much.”

She began humming softly in his ear.

In the evening, while she was in the courtyard, she saw the bird fly on the ground and jump like a spring a meter away from her.

Shimu smiled and went into the house; she came back a moment later with a piece of roti.

She crumbled it and threw it at her feet.

The bird scuttled, pecking at the crumbs up to the tip of her left foot.

The girl wiped her wet, soapy hand on her salwar and placed it palm up on the ground next to her foot.

The little bird leapt onto her palm.

She could barely see the tiny eye and the feathers looked velvety.

“Hello, little one.” Shimu said bringing her hand close to the chin.

The bird spread its wings and took off, beyond the crown of the tree.

In the evening she ate with her mother, prayed and went to sleep.

 

The next day she worked all the hours she owed.

The lady gave her an envelope with fragrant mangoes.

Tushar's family was in the hospital. Shimu watched them from the corner of the corridor, behind a wall, waited for them to leave and entered the room.

She gave Tahera one of the pulpiest mangoes; now she considered her a friend: they had been talking every day for months.

As soon as Shimu arrived, the nurse updated her on everything the doctors had said during the day. Then she closed the stiff pink curtain and left the girl alone with him.

Shimu was getting more and more tired. Sometimes it happened to close her eyes without realizing it.

She talked, talked, told many things.

Then she rested her cheek on Tushar's hand, still telling the stories, and closed her eyes. Hypnotized by the BEEP of the machine.

Tahera happened to wake her up to go home when it was late, or when the doctors were about to arrive.

She closed her eyes.

She was starting to hear the melodious sound of the harmonium*.

The plunge of the oar into the river.

The sky blue like water dotted with the green of the lotus.

She saw the white trail of airplanes in the sky and the ants lined up on the red earth.

The incessant ticking of sewing machines and the honking of cars in traffic.

From the blurred blue background emerged a figure with outstretched arms swinging as if in flight.

And a voice, coming to her from who knows what corner of sky and river.

A very sweet and feeble voice.

Shonaro palonker ghor-e...
...likhe rekhechilem daar-e*”

Shimu opened her eyes with difficulty. She felt a movement under her cheek. She realized that the voice was not in her head. She saw Tushar's finger move in jerks, slowly.

"Jao pakhi bolo taar-e...
she jeno bhole na mor-e...*”

 

Tushar sang in an imperceptible voice. Shimu jumped to her feet. She saw the boy's eyes open, though not quite.

His dry lips barely smiled. “Hi... Pakhi...”

Shimu couldn't hold back the tears. She bent over him.

“Welcome back, pagol”

Then she ran out to find Tahera.

They returned to the room accompanied by a swarm of doctors.

Shimu took her things, slowly backed towards the door as she looked all those white coats around the bed.

Tahera looked for her and nodded with a smile.

Back home she told her mother and brother about him.

Tushar's family had already been notified and were on their way to the hospital.

That evening she ate as if she hadn't touched food in months.

In the evening Shimu went out into the courtyard with the clothes to wash.

She looked toward the wall, where the branches of the tree passed the red brick edge.

No trace of the bird.

She went to sleep with a sweet smile embroidered on her face.

 

Nasreen Begum

“No mystery beyond the present;
no striving for the impossible;
no shadow behind the charm;
no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me
is simple as a song.”
(R. Tagore, from “The Gardner”, XVI)

 

Special thanks go to Rownak for helping me with this story.
Dedicated to my Dhaka.


*Dal is a term originating in South Asia for dried, split pulses (e.g., lentils, peas, and beans) that do not require soaking before cooking. Certain regions in Bangladesh and India are the largest producers of pulses in the world. The term is also used for various soups prepared from these pulses.
*Boti is a cutting instrument, most prevalent in the country Nepal, Bihar, Bengal region in the eastern part of the Indian subcontinent. It's a long curved blade that cuts on a platform held down by foot. Both hands are used to hold whatever is being cut and move it against the blade. The sharper side faces the user.
*Pakhi pagol, crazy bird.
*Cha is the typical tea drink with milk.
*Jelapi, jalebi, also known as jilapi, jilebi, jilipi, zulbia, jerry, mushabak, or zalabia, is a popular Indian sweet snack. It's made by deep-frying maida flour (plain flour or all-purpose flour) batter in pretzel or circular shapes, which are then soaked in sugar syrup.
*The harmonium is a bellows organ used in Indian classical music.
*In my luxurious room
I wrote on the door.
*Fly bird there,
ask him never to forget me.


Italian version