What sort of accident? I said.
Their car was stopped by some hooligans, my father told me. Just ordinary ruffians like you have everywhere. But the car swerved and crashed into a wall or something … That was all. No one else was hurt.
I nodded and went ahead, my offerings still safe in my hands.
No, wait, my father said, pulling me to a halt. Listen: you have to promise me something. Remember you’re holding Ma Kali’s flowers in your hands, so you can’t ever go back on your word. Promise me that you’ll never talk about this anywhere — never, not in school, not to Montu, not to your friends at the park. You know that Meshomoshai — Tridib’s father — is a very important man in the government? He doesn’t want people to hear about this — it has to be kept secret, so you mustn’t talk about it. Most of all, you mustn’t ask your Tha’mma any questions about what happened. She’s already very upset, and it would only get worse if you made her talk about it. You’re growing up now, you’re a big boy, and you have to understand that there are things grownups don’t talk about.
I nodded, but I didn’t really give him my word — not because I did not think I could keep it, but merely because I could not understand why he was making such a fuss. My friends wouldn’t have been interested in an accident in some far-off place anyway. There was nothing to talk about: an accident was such a petty way to die.
The first time Robi ever talked about Tridib’s death was in London: at the end of that beautiful September day when Ila took us to Lymington Road to meet Mrs Price.
Ila had promised to give Robi and me dinner at her favourite ‘Indian’ restaurant — a small Bangladeshi place called the Maharaja, in Clapham — after we’d been to see Mrs Price. She did her best to persuade Nick to come with us too, when he walked us back to the West Hampstead tube station. But Nick declined politely: he had something to do that evening, he said; he would have to put it off till some other time. He waved us goodbye at West Hampstead station.
Ila was so disappointed she did not say a single word all the way to Clapham Common.
The restaurant was only a few minutes’ walk from the underground station. Ila pointed it out to us as soon as we climbed out — a dimly lit plate-glass window, with heavy velvet curtains, wedged in between a dozen other eating places, ranging from Guyanese to Turkish. When Robi pushed the door open, we found ourselves in a narrow, rectangular room, divided into little cubicles, each with its own table and chairs. The tables were lit by brass lamps with tasselled shades and the chairs were upholstered in worn purple cloth. The room smelt powerfully of spices, as though the central heating had grafted the odours of the kitchen deep into the wallpaper and upholstery.
The restaurant was almost empty when we went in. The man behind the counter, at the far end of the room, waved when he saw Ila, and came hurrying towards us.
How are you, Rehman-shaheb? Ila said as she handed him her coat.
I’m very well, he said, smiling broadly. He was a short, middle-aged man, with round cheeks and greying hair, dressed in a black jacket and a white bow tie. He spoke Bengali with a nasal Sylhet accent, and we had to listen to him carefully to follow, even though he was obviously making an effort to match his speech to ours.
Where have you been all these days? he was saying to Ila. We haven’t seen you in here for so long we thought you’d moved away from Stockwell.
Ila laughed. Oh no, Rehman-shaheb, she said. I wouldn’t move away without telling you first.
Rehman-shaheb ushered us to a table, pulled back the chairs and handed us each a menu. Robi opened his, looked at it for a moment, and gave me a sidelong glance.
Chicken Singapore? he said under his breath.
Prawn Bombay? I responded.
Robi sighed and snapped his menu shut. Why don’t you order, Ila? he said. You obviously know the place.
Ila ordered quickly, without bothering to look at the menu. When Rehman-shaheb had taken our orders and gone into the kitchen, she leant towards us and whispered: Treat it like something exotic — like Eskimo food — and you’ll enjoy it. You’re not going to get your mothers’ chochchori and bhat; you mustn’t expect anything familiar.
She was proved right when the food came: everything fell just beyond the border of familiarity — the usual taste of spices transformed by stock and cream and Worcestershire Sauce. But the food was delicious in its own way, and we ate heartily while Robi told us stories about his colleagues in the Indian Administrative Service — funny stories about lonely young men who lived in huge colonial mansions in remote districts and spent their time writing symbolist poetry and masturbating.
After the plates had been cleared away and Ila had paid for the dinner with her credit card, Rehman-shaheb came back with three cups of coffee on a tray.
This is from us, he said. I mean, ‘Compliments of the House’, ar ki; you know? It’s a custom over here.
Oh, Rehman-shaheb! exclaimed Ila. Why did you do all this? You shouldn’t have. But now you have to sit with us for a while.
Yes, do sit with us for a bit, I added. For me the experience of hearing Bengali dialects which I had never heard in Calcutta being spoken in the streets of London was still replete with unexplored ironies.
All right, Rehman-shaheb said, and pulled a chair up to our table. There was an awkward moment of silence, and then Ila said: Rehman-shaheb, do you know, my uncle Robi over there lived in your part of the world when he was a boy, in Dhaka.
Oh, is that so? said Rehman-shaheb. I lived there too for a bit. When were you there?
It was a long time ago, said Robi. From 1962 to 1964.
I see, said Rehman-shaheb, I left before that — joined a ship, you know. Have you been back after that? After Bangladesh became independent?
Robi shook his head.
You must go, said Rehman-shaheb. It’s completely changed now — so modern. You won’t believe it. But tell me, which part of the city did you live in?
In Dhanmundi, said Robi.
Ah there, said Rehman-shaheb. That was for rich folks and foreigners. Did you ever go into the old city? Now that’s where you should have gone: the sweets you’ll get there! Like nowhere else in the world, not even Calcutta. And the people! They’re so hospitable, they’ll take you straight into their houses.
Robi smiled thinly.
Ila gave me a worried glance and pushed her chair back.
But I don’t suppose you’ve ever been into that part of the town, have you? said Rehman-shaheb, smiling at Robi.
Yes, said Robi. As a matter of fact, I have. You see my mother was born there.
Really? cried Rehman-shaheb. Where? Do you remember where?
Robi’s smile was like a grimace now. Yes, he said. I do remember. You had to go past Shador-bajar, and then turn off the road and go down a long road crowded with shops, and then you had to turn off at a corner where there was a kind of field where the boys used to play football, and then there’s a hardware shop, and that’s the corner of the lane where my mother was born — Jindabahar Lane, Dhaka.
Allah! said Rehman-shaheb. You remember it very well I can see. But you must have been very young then. How is it that you remember?
I pushed my chair back and stood up. We ought to go now, I said.
But Robi didn’t hear me. He was leaning towards Rehman-shaheb, gripping the table, his knuckles white.
I remember it because my brother was killed there, he said. In a riot — not far from where my mother was born. Now do you see why I remember?
Rehman-shaheb leapt to his feet, his face red with embarrassment.
Robi stood up, pushed his way past us and went out.
Oh, I’m so … Rehman-shaheb said to Ila. I didn’t mean … I really didn’t.