Chachu

The storm last night was at its worst. 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 effect of a strict teacher in the classroom, even the rowdiest in their pretty village would turn still. The stillness of the neem and guava trees in their garden matched even the quiet of her 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.

Ammu warned Shabbu to gather the clothes from the wet line in their backyard. Shabbu first saved the kooler achaar which Ammu always put out on their terrace. Clothes can wait, this can’t!! 

Having finished her chores, Shabbu 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. Shabbu 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!

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 the 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 seemed to throttle the breath out of their small village of Paramanandapur. Shabbu had goosebumps. This did not feel right. Menacing storms as this can stifle the last breath from a man. Shabbu knew this. 

Chachu is to Shabbu 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”.

And the best was yet to come. Ma’s barrage of words and anger would majorly fall on Chachu once she discovered the duo’s absence. And that would make Shabbu giggle and that would make Ammu shift her attention to Shabbu, 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, berate Chachu. And being all of nineteen, she took this to great lengths. And cherished every moment of it.

As Shabbu 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! Shabbu looked to her right, beyond the trunk of the guava tree. Nah, he wasn’t here. Then she looked more to the left; yeah there he was all right, hiding behind the fence of Karim’s garden and flashing her that silly grin! Shabbu got up and rushed to her room to fetch her bag. Thank Allah for giving her Chachu; he always had her back, shielding Shabbu 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 fun was unmatched each time. 

Chachu and Shabbu raced, each their own way. Today their harvest would be the best, they thought. Not a single other child or adult dared step out in this weather! The bag was already filled to the brim today. 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, one could barely keep one’s eyes open! 

The storm was at its tempestuous worst today and got angrier with each passing minute. The branches of the mango trees swayed from side to side and almost touched ground. Violent winds literally stripped the trees of all their harvest. Shabbu felt the rage of the storm 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 now opened up, as if to appease the devilish rage of this tempest. In a second, Shabbu 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 this sudden hush which only light could penetrate. 

Shabbu screamed for Chachu, he seemed to be nowhere. The darkness engulfed Shabbu as if in a cursed wrap; she felt suffocated. By now, Shabbu 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. Shabbu 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 Shabbu, she wrapped her arms around her best friend’s neck, felt his reassuring smell, his breath. She 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 Shabbu’s house. The look on the faces of Hakim Chacha, Ahmed and Razia matched their look on that stormy evening when Chachu was ill. Shabbu was lying on her bed, 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. The entire village was around their aangan. Shabbu 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, Shabbu fluttered her eyelids. When all were deeply engrossed in the might of prayer, Shabbu’s feeble smile was one of gratitude this time. Why wasn’t she too on the mat, was her first thought. And then the ever present source of all her queries, her answers, her mischief and her misadventures tiptoed in front of her, that sparkle in his eyes and that quiet 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, 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 forteen year old in Shabbu’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, Shabbu’s Ammu. They rushed into Shabbu’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. Shabbu’s hot 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, Shabbu’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. Shabbu’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 Shabbu’s room, with Chachu’s smile. Mashallah!