Chachu

The storm last night was its worst this season. Kalboishakhi has been shifting ahead a few years now around their small village of Paramanandapur in Faridpur, Bangladesh. Early April would often have this overcast sky and like the forbearing presence of a strict teacher in the classroom, even the rowdiest in their pretty village would turn quiet. The stillness of the neem and guava trees in their garden matched the quiet of their noisy koel. Just that the bunch of fearless crows were indomitable, letting off their consistent ka ka ka in the quiet of the afternoon sun.

The sky was already getting a deathly dark. Ammu warned Shabnam to gather the clothes from the wet line in their backyard before the rain Gods drenched the almost dry clothes again. Shabnam of course first saved the kooler achaar left out to dry on their terrace; clothes can wait, this can’t!! 

Having finished her homework and chores, Shabnam pulled out the old worn mattress, hastily draped a shataranchhi on it, which was a gift to her from her Dimma and settled on her back with the latest of those series of romantic novels she again managed to stealthily take away from Didi’s room. This time of the day was the best. Shabnam would be back from school just before a late lunch, Ammu would shut her tired eyes a while, Abbu would be away at the factory and Didi at college. This was Shabnam’s hour in the sun, her moment of a quiet glimpse into the pages of a world where she yet did not have the permission to set foot.

And just when that sudden cool breeze, without the promise of a downpour, tickled her cheeks and back and ruffled her hair much like the wild kiss of that boy in Didi’s novel, Shabnam knew the storm was on its way. The sky turned a dreaded black, blacker than the black of that year Chachu had the fever. The clouds closed in a conspiratorial cluster, throttling the very breath out of their small village of Paramanandapur. On a whim, the very leaves of the trees stood still.

Shabnam had goosebumps. This did not feel right. Menacing storms as this can stifle the last breath from a man. She knew this. 

Chachu is to Shabnam what Ila Didi is to Didi. Her best pal, her alter ego. On such quiet afternoons, Chachu would whisper “Shabbu, bag ne” (Shabbu, take the bag) and the two of them would climb over the fence of the backyard and make their quick retreat to the aambagan (mango garden) behind the abandoned Zamindar villa. Waiting for the worst rage of the storm to die down, they would make a rush to pick the fallen mangoes. A mad dance ensued in the aambagan, to the tune of Chachu’s  rather beshuro (out of tune) “aye brishti jhenpe…aam debo mepe”, his very own rendition.

And the climax of this intense drama would be Ma’s barrage of words and anger; they would majorly fall on Chachu once she discovered the duo’s absence. And that would make Shabnam giggle and that would make Ammu shift her attention to Shabnam, only to get back to Chachu in a minute for he would begin that uncontrollable laughter of his! And Ammu’s practised look of quiet anger would soon burst into a grin with a dimple and thereafter would ensue a squeal of laughter from these three so much so that Karishma Chachi and Rehman Chacha would soon ask “Abar tora jhogra lagiyechhish!?” (Again you three are fighting). Such an afternoon would end in all five of them sitting on Dimma’s old mattress sipping cha and singara, often telebhaja which Ammu would send Chachu to fetch from the nearby shop. 

Chachu was all of five when Ammu married into this family. He was the brother Ammu never had. The youngest of four sisters, Razia was always the pampered one. Bhai to her from that first look he gave her, the bond between Bhai and Bhaabi kicked off with a flair. Abbu encouraged this bonding, he always felt the absence of a woman in his little brother’s life. Shabbir was more a son than a brother to Abbu. Ammu had that unrestricted authority to love and berate Chachu. And being all of nineteen, she took this to great lengths. And cherished every moment of it.

As Shabnam set aside the book to look up at the sky, Chachu’s teasing voice reached her ears. Today he must be upto one of those annoying tricks of calling her name from Allah knows which hidden corner! Shabnam looked to her right, beyond the trunk of the guava tree. Nah, he wasn’t here. Then she looked to the left; yeah there he was all right, hiding behind the fence of Karim’s garden and flashing her that silly grin! Shabnam got up and rushed to her room to fetch her bag. Thank Allah for giving her Chachu; he always had her back, shielding her from Ammu’s rage, Didi’s tongue lashing and in some instances even Abbu’s suspicions. Together, they raced towards Zamindar Babu’s aambagan. The rest was rather routine, but the adrenalin rush and the fun were unmatched each time. 

Chachu and Shabnam ran, each their own way. Today their harvest had to be the best; there was no competition. Not a single other child or adult dared step out in this weather! The bag was filled to the brim in minutes. Now was the turn to stuff the rest of the mangoes in empty pockets. In a minute, none knew where the other was. Remember, the aambagan was all of five acres and in this constant strong wind that lashed out mercilessly at these two slender bodies, one could barely keep one’s eyes open! 

The storm showed its tempestuous worst and got angrier with each passing minute. The branches of the mango trees swayed from side to side so much that they almost touched ground. Violent winds literally stripped the trees of all their harvest. Shabnam felt its rage in the lightning streaks in the angry sky, the sound of the loud whoosh in the air around her, the constant shivers all over her body. And then just as sudden as the advent of the storm, the heavens opened up without a warning, as if to appease the devilish rage of this tempest. In a matter of seconds, Shabnam was soaked to her skin. Their bag was filled to the brim. They should leave now, Ammu would be raving mad. Untimely darkness had descended in the aambagan. There was no place to hide from the fury of the rain and the anger of the growing darkness.  

Shabnam screamed for Chachu, he seemed to be nowhere. The darkness engulfed her as if in a cursed wrap; she felt suffocated. By now, Shabnam felt the unaccustomed deep shiver running down her spine. Is this fear, an emotion quite alien to her? The aambagan was by now veiled in an absolute impregnable pitch black. Shabnam couldn’t see her own limbs, could only hear her now panicky shallow breaths. She felt she would choke in her own drenched self and drown in the black around her. She made one last attempt to look for Chachu, with the remains of her strong will in that tiny body. And like in Didi’s romance novel, where out of the deep blue ocean the hero comes up in one upward dive, in one instant’s lightning, there was Chachu with concern in his always smiling eyes, looking at her and saying “Bhoy pachhish naaki, ami toh acchi!” (“Are you afraid? I am here for you”). A flood of relief swept over Shabnam, she wrapped her arms around her best friend’s neck, felt his reassuring smell, his breath, his wholesome presence. And shut her eyes.

The village of Paramanandapur was like one extended home, with friends who have become family over the years. In a typical Bangladesh village, when a child’s mother is sick, it is only natural for the child to have all meals at a neighbour’s and even spend days there under the care of the mother of the house. This is only natural. Today, the entire village flocked in the premises of Shabnam’s house.

Shabnam lay with eyes shut tight, as if the last of the terrifying storm unleashed a fear in her, too hard to face, her little body burning in fever. She was lying on Ammu’s bed. A look of fear enveloped the loving faces of Hakim Chacha, Ahmed and Razia. The entire village was around their aangan. She had been lying still, eyes closed, shallow breathing for almost a day now. Hakim Chacha had been at her bedside throughout the night.

It was afternoon and Mullah Baba’s Namaaz caught the notes through the village air. As the elders and young ones, spread their prayer mats and bent to surrender to the will of Allah, Shabnam fluttered her eyelids. She looked around. Why wasn’t she too on the mat, was her first thought. And then the ever present source of all her troubles and mischiefs, the partner in crime in all her misadventures tiptoed in front of her, that sparkle in his eyes and that impish grin on his face, ushering her with his forefinger on his lips a silent Shhhh. Don’t utter a word, he seemed to say. As always, this Chachu of hers, the cause of so much chiding in her life, annoys her, delights her, but mostly makes her want to reach out and hug him. Such is her Chachu is in all his innocence, still a fourteen year old in Shabnam’s eyes. Chachu, unknown to the village of Paramanandapur, is still as much in Shabnam’s life as he always has been from the minute she was born.

Namaaz ended. Even before folding their prayer mats, everyone in the small aangan turned to the yelp of Razia, Shabnam’s Ammu. They rushed into Shabnam’s room holding their breath, bellowing out Allah’s name in all His glory, to see the little girl’s weak smile and tear stricken eyes. Her hot flushed cheeks were against Ammu’s, taking a breath from Ammu’s warmth. With Paramanandapur’s “ Allahu Akbar“ (God is great) reverberating across the small room, their aangan, the neem and guava trees and across the pretty village and the river and their mosque, Shabnam’s dazed eyes were on Chachu’s picture on the wall, framed and garlanded with belphool from Ila Didi’s garden, that silly grin pasted on his face from Id, five years back. Chachu’s last picture, in his favourite blue, a gift from his much-loved Bhaabi. 

The storm cleared. The sun bathed their pretty village of Paramanandapur in her soft golden glow. Shabnam’s koel started a tune, urging the little girl and her forever-present larger shadow to sing along…their catch of the earlier day lay strewn across the floor. It seemed as if the harvest of the entire aambagan lay in that tiny corner in Shabnam’s room, with Chachu’s smile. Mashallah!