Dawn was still hours away. But the sound of the door opening broke my sleep.
I woke, but didn't open my eyes. I knew His Lordship would rise at exactly this hour every day and go outside, call Mona's mother from the other room to light the stove, then walk beneath the neem tree for a while. After his bath, he'd return to the room with a mass of wet hair spread across his back. Winter or summer—the routine never varied. A childhood habit he'd never been able to shake.
So though I'd awakened, I kept my eyes closed. I simply turned over. But as I turned, Khoka's small hand must have slipped from my neck. He startled awake suddenly. Then he moved closer and placed his soft hand on my cheek, calling in his tender voice: "Baba!"
I pulled him closer with both arms and said, "What is it, dear?" The five-year-old's bright face seemed to burst into song. He said, "Are you sleeping?"
I said, "No, of course not—see, I'm talking to you right now." He didn't believe me. "Yes, you are sleeping. Look, your eyes are closed!"
I had no choice but to open them. Opening them, I saw the room filled with dim light.
Light streamed through the open eastern window onto the bed. I looked at Khoka. In his drowsy young eyes I saw boundless delight. What was this about! Following his gaze, I turned toward the window.
By now Khoka had sat up in joy. "Baba, sparrow!" "Yes, dear, a sparrow." Mischievous and restless as my Khoka, a sparrow sat perched at the window. It sat there chirping sweetly. I watched as the sparrow suddenly fluttered into the room, rustled about for a moment, then flew back to its perch. Khoka sat watching the sparrow's game. And I thought about how small this little boy's world still was, how limited his imagination remained.
This Khoka would grow up one day, go to school. I'd buy him a good bicycle then; like the big sahib's son, he'd ride his bicycle to school. After school he'd come home for his snack, then go out to play. After playing, he'd come home in the evening and sit down to study.
I wouldn't have to spend a penny on Khoka's education. These days there are so many government scholarships for good students. Scholarships at every level. Then one day he'd pass his matriculation too. After that, no more worries. If he did well in matric, he'd get a good government scholarship for room and board at a good college. I wouldn't have to worry about expenses at all. Then university. If he took honors in English, that would be excellent; he'd get first class first and sit for his MA exam.
By then I wouldn't be doing clerical work at the Collectorate anymore. I'd invite all my office colleagues—Sams Bhai, Mohinda, Rashid Saheb, Mollaji, and Kazi—and quit my job to come home. They'd surely envy my good fortune that day. Then Khoka would marry, and a rosy-cheeked young bride would come to our home.
Then if Khoka became a collector by Allah's grace and came to work right here, and one day gave today's big sahib a proper scolding, that would be quite something.
I'd spend my days happily with Khoka's children... How strange! Khoka would have his own little ones? Well, by then surely mine and Khoka's mother's hair would have gone gray, and perhaps a few teeth would have fallen out too.
Suddenly I felt like laughing. What would my Tahmina look like when her teeth fell out?
I was smiling to myself at the thought when suddenly Tahmina entered the room. Wrapping her wet hair in a towel, she said, "Well, well! Like father, like son. Both of you are kings of laziness. I've finished all my work and you two still haven't gotten up." As she spoke and came toward the bed, I grabbed her sari's end and pulled.
"Oh! Let go! What are you doing!" Tahmina tumbled onto my lap. I said, "Look, Mina, it's Sunday. No office. We can get up late—such golden mornings don't come often in our lives. Sit, you can't get up now either." I pulled her close with both arms.
Khoka had stopped watching his sparrow. Seeing that I'd captured his mother, he was delighted. He too placed a hand on me. Tahmina said, "Yes, that's just like you men. Forever butterfly minds, always caught up with novelty. Tell me, haven't such mornings come before in our lives?" Saying this, she gazed out the window. Her distant, wistful eyes, thinking of days left far behind, wove a wild murmur leaf by leaf.
Almost like a soliloquy, Tahmina said, "You can forget, but I never will. Just a year or so before our wedding. Like today, you had no office rush. You'd gone to Jamalpur on ten days' leave. Even then I'd bathe at dawn and enter your room in the morning. When I'd tap your head with my hand, you'd open your eyes and look. You'd see me smiling. Do you remember what you used to say then?" With questioning eyes, Tahmina turned to face me directly.
I said, "No! Who remembers things from so long ago?" Tahmina said, "Women do—women never forget the past. I remember, you'd touch my face and say melodiously,
Rising at dawn, I beheld this face—
today will be a good day."
I said, "Yes, yes, I remember now. And hearing that, you used to get angry, didn't you?" In a voice wounded with hurt and resentment, she said, "Yet after marriage, you never said it that way again, not once."
Now what should I say in reply? I'm thinking. Thinking how complex women's characters are, how varied their hearts! The very words they love to hear in private, they object to hearing face-to-face! That's why women remain forever shrouded in mystery.
After a moment Tahmina continued, "Do you remember another day? That morning by the sea? We disembarked from the launch in the dead of night. Khoka wasn't born yet. It was my fifth month when you took me there. We stepped onto the open sand at Jamalpur. What bitter cold in that dawn of Poush! And what fierce wind came from the sea's breast and struck us again and again. You took off your shawl and wrapped it around me. It kept slipping off, and you kept wrapping it back on as an excuse to... how mischievous you were!"
As I played with her fingers, somehow I'd drawn her hand to my chest without realizing it. The moment I noticed, I pulled her close too. She rested her face on my chest and embraced Khoka.
The sparrow had apparently returned to perch at the window. Khoka cried out, "Ma, sparrow!"
Yes, that sparrow was Khoka's own realm of thought. All three of us turned toward the sparrow. Khoka's mother, Khoka, and I—three fragments representing past, present, and future.