hunger. After dinner Mrs Chowdhury instructed Silvi and Sabeer to sit beside each other on the double sofa. She gave Silvi a garland of jasmine and told her to place it around Sabeer’s neck. Sabeer dipped his head, and Silvi slipped the garland over it. Everyone clapped, except Maya, who was looking up at the ceiling and singing quietly to herself. Amar Shonar Bangla . . . My golden Bengal, how I adore you .
At ten o’clock the tanks began to fire.
It was the sound of a thousand New Year firecrackers, of metal pipes being dragged across a stone road, of chillies popping in a smoking pan.
‘Ya’allah!’ Mrs Chowdhury cried. ‘What’s happening?’ ‘Everybody stay where you are,’ Sabeer said.
‘I want to go home,’ Mrs Sengupta said. ‘Let’s take Mithun and go.’ She gathered the child in her arms and made for the door.
‘Ammoo,’ Maya said, ‘it’s coming from Road 2.’
There was loud, thunderous bang. ‘Hai Allah! Hai Allah!’ Mrs Chowdhury said. ‘This is it, we are all finished.’
Then they couldn’t hear each other over the sound of the bullets. Mithun woke up and began to cry softly. His mother cradled him against her breast, whispering with her lips to his forehead. Outside, Romeo and Juliet were barking hoarsely at the shelling.
‘Everybody stay calm,’ Sabeer said, ‘stay calm and stay where you are. Sohail and I are going to the roof to see what’s happen- ing.’
55
‘I want to go home,’ Mrs Sengupta said.
Rehana saw Sabeer’s chair clatter to the ground as he rushed to the stairwell; his boots pounded, and Sohail’s chappals clapped, as they made their way to the roof. ‘Don’t go up there!’ Mrs Chowdhury said, but they were already gone.
Flashes of light came through the window and illuminated the room. Mrs Chowdhury’s lamb roast was a half-eaten corpse with naked ribs and a picked-over leg. The tomato was gone but the mouth was still open. Mrs Chowdhury looked as though she might lunge under the dining table, but instead she sank deeper into her chair, her hand clasped to her breast. ‘Allah! Allah! Allah!’ she said.
‘What’s happening, what’s happening,’ they kept repeating.
The shelling at Peelkhana was close enough to make Rehana’s chest rattle. She heard shouts. A siren sounded in a looping, circular wail. Fiery sparks illuminated the horizon; a deep sound like faraway thunder reverberated through the air; then came smoke, and a small hush, as though it was over. But it wasn’t. Seconds later it started all over again. Rehana wanted to hold her children. She wanted to put her hands over their ears. But Maya was glued to the window, and Sohail was on the roof with Sabeer. She could hear the two sets of footsteps echoing dully from above.
Maya picked up the telephone. ‘Phone’s dead,’ she declared. Then she turned to the transistor, but there was only a low, humming static.
From Mrs Chowdhury’s roof, Sohail and Lieutenant Sabeer watched the fires of the lit-up city. Suddenly they heard every- thing: the killing of small children, the slow movement of clouds, the death of women, the sigh of fleeing birds, the rush of blood on the pavements.
Sohail spoke first. ‘We’ll have to wait till the curfew’s lifted.’ Sabeer looked down at his uniform. The green was dark,
almost invisible, but the sickle, the grin, shone whitely against his chest, the crimson sky, the blinking horizon. ‘I’m an officer of the Pakistan Army,’ he said at last.
56
‘What will you do?’
‘I’m not sure.’ The scar above his lip rippled as he twisted his mouth.
‘Desertion is punishable by death,’ Sohail said.
‘I don’t care about that. I just never thought it would come to this.’
Sohail did not rebuke Sabeer for not knowing better.
They returned to the party. Mrs Chowdhury was still supine on the dining chair; Mrs Sengupta was at Mithun’s bedside with her hand on his chest. Maya took the radio to the kitchen to see if she could get a signal. Rehana
At ten o’clock the tanks began to fire.
It was the sound of a thousand New Year firecrackers, of metal pipes being dragged across a stone road, of chillies popping in a smoking pan.
‘Ya’allah!’ Mrs Chowdhury cried. ‘What’s happening?’ ‘Everybody stay where you are,’ Sabeer said.
‘I want to go home,’ Mrs Sengupta said. ‘Let’s take Mithun and go.’ She gathered the child in her arms and made for the door.
‘Ammoo,’ Maya said, ‘it’s coming from Road 2.’
There was loud, thunderous bang. ‘Hai Allah! Hai Allah!’ Mrs Chowdhury said. ‘This is it, we are all finished.’
Then they couldn’t hear each other over the sound of the bullets. Mithun woke up and began to cry softly. His mother cradled him against her breast, whispering with her lips to his forehead. Outside, Romeo and Juliet were barking hoarsely at the shelling.
‘Everybody stay calm,’ Sabeer said, ‘stay calm and stay where you are. Sohail and I are going to the roof to see what’s happen- ing.’
55
‘I want to go home,’ Mrs Sengupta said.
Rehana saw Sabeer’s chair clatter to the ground as he rushed to the stairwell; his boots pounded, and Sohail’s chappals clapped, as they made their way to the roof. ‘Don’t go up there!’ Mrs Chowdhury said, but they were already gone.
Flashes of light came through the window and illuminated the room. Mrs Chowdhury’s lamb roast was a half-eaten corpse with naked ribs and a picked-over leg. The tomato was gone but the mouth was still open. Mrs Chowdhury looked as though she might lunge under the dining table, but instead she sank deeper into her chair, her hand clasped to her breast. ‘Allah! Allah! Allah!’ she said.
‘What’s happening, what’s happening,’ they kept repeating.
The shelling at Peelkhana was close enough to make Rehana’s chest rattle. She heard shouts. A siren sounded in a looping, circular wail. Fiery sparks illuminated the horizon; a deep sound like faraway thunder reverberated through the air; then came smoke, and a small hush, as though it was over. But it wasn’t. Seconds later it started all over again. Rehana wanted to hold her children. She wanted to put her hands over their ears. But Maya was glued to the window, and Sohail was on the roof with Sabeer. She could hear the two sets of footsteps echoing dully from above.
Maya picked up the telephone. ‘Phone’s dead,’ she declared. Then she turned to the transistor, but there was only a low, humming static.
From Mrs Chowdhury’s roof, Sohail and Lieutenant Sabeer watched the fires of the lit-up city. Suddenly they heard every- thing: the killing of small children, the slow movement of clouds, the death of women, the sigh of fleeing birds, the rush of blood on the pavements.
Sohail spoke first. ‘We’ll have to wait till the curfew’s lifted.’ Sabeer looked down at his uniform. The green was dark,
almost invisible, but the sickle, the grin, shone whitely against his chest, the crimson sky, the blinking horizon. ‘I’m an officer of the Pakistan Army,’ he said at last.
56
‘What will you do?’
‘I’m not sure.’ The scar above his lip rippled as he twisted his mouth.
‘Desertion is punishable by death,’ Sohail said.
‘I don’t care about that. I just never thought it would come to this.’
Sohail did not rebuke Sabeer for not knowing better.
They returned to the party. Mrs Chowdhury was still supine on the dining chair; Mrs Sengupta was at Mithun’s bedside with her hand on his chest. Maya took the radio to the kitchen to see if she could get a signal. Rehana
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