| Prelude to Bangladesh » Omar Chowdhury |
Sour Fruit |
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As for disappointing others, I should not so much mind, but I can't abide to disappoint myself. She Stoops To Conquer Oliver Goldsmith
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ONE EVENING, an alarming incident took place, and the town could talk of nothing else for two whole days, before lapsing again into contemplation of the obsessive question: "Shall I survive all this?" A sensational rape had taken place. A poor Bengalee widow had been ravished by a jawan! "We knew it was coming, and now the danger has arrived!" The town was very disturbed. It all started innocently enough, as such incidents sometimes do - a lonely woman, normal and healthy, panting for sex. Contrary to popular belief, many women, if put on oath, would probably admit that they throughly enjoyed the experience! Never again will they relish tame gymnastics on their legitimate beds. Their poor husbands will find but weak response from those who on honey dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of paradise! Afroza was a twenty-three year old Bengalee woman, married to a thirty-year old non-Bengalee man. Before the civil war, her husband had established a small bakery, and was quite happy in a modest kind of way. But like all those people who think that life is incomplete without a wife, a day came when he relished that a lonely bed was no bed at all - even if enlivened by a temporary occupant occasionally. So he decided that the time had come for him to surrender to the whims and vagaries of matrimony. Brokers were approached (he had no near relatives in East Pakistan), cautious feelers put out, negotiations initiated. Afroza was not a beautiful woman - slightly pretty, yes, but if beauty was at all to be taken into consideration, then it resided in the fact that her father was very well off by town standards, being what is described as a "civil contractor", a breed of businessmen who offer their services for the construction of buildings, culverts, and such like ornaments, and make enormous profits. To be a contractor in this part of the world is the ambition of most ignorant, industrious, scheming, intriguing, throat cutting entrepreneurs, and Afroza's father was a very good example of the species. Formalities followed their due course, and finally the marriage was accomplished. The food at the wedding banquet was declared by all those invited, and all those who went uninvited, to be ample and delicious. The guests were over a hundred in number, and most of them were in fact guests of the bride's father, who bore the entire expenses for the feast. This expenditure was fully justified. As we shall see. Now the husband, Ahmed by name, had only one really close friend: a tailor. They had been at school together, and this friend had been the principal negotiator of the marriage contract. It was he who had discovered that Afroza was on the 'immediate' marriage market, and had encouraged Ahmed to seek her hand. It had not exactly required much force to precipitate Ahmed into such a fortunate dream-match! Early in the morning, after the exercises of the nuptial night, it was to this friend that Ahmed went in great agony of mind, hair disheveled, pants not properly buttoned, an expression of deep anguish on his pale face, and despondency in his heart. "Brother Moti, Brother Moti, open the door!" Ahmed wailed, banging with impatient fists. And when the door was opened by the sleepy tailor, Ahmed fell across the threshold into his arms, and began weeping. "For the sake of Allah, what is the Mater? Calm down, or you will frighten the children. Now come outside and tell me what this is all about." They went outside, and Ahmed lit a cigarette with shaking hands. "She has only one breast!" he said, in what is sometimes described as a choked voice. "And, and... she suffers from such bad breath that... O what have you done to me! Why wasn't her father honest about it all? Now I realize why he agreed to have me as a son-in-law. I should have suspected something. What shall I do? I cannot divorce her so soon after the wedding. Her father is rich, and therefore powerful. And what about the dowry? I should have to sell the shop." His renewed sobbing was pitiful. From that day onwards, Ahmed's life was a misery. He began feeding Afroza pan on every possible occasion, particularly before retiring for the night. Lonely bed indeed! O how he longed for the freedom which he had so stupidly cast away. His misery was so great that he even toyed with the idea of putting poison in Afroza's pan! But, alas, to complicate matters, Afroza declared that she did not like the taste of it anymore, and insisted on giving it up. "Why?" "It interferes with my digestion." "But Afroza, my sweet, it's supposed to be good for digestion." "I don't know about other people, but it's no good for mine." And that was that. Not long afterwards, the civil war began, and soon thereafter the Pakistan army occupied the town. This was Ahmed's chance. At last! He immediately 'joined' the army, as a senior Razakar. Naturally this exposed him to some amount of danger, but such was his aversion to Afroza that death held no fears for him. His few friends wondered why he had voluntarily chosen this course. Only Moti the tailor knew the real reason. It was obvious to him that Ahmed preferred death to Afroza's breath! It might be worth noting that, in the Orient at any rate, those who suffer from halitosis are usually blissfully unaware of the fact, and besides, it's a very delicate matter to discuss, however intimate one might be with the sufferer. So Afroza began to live alone in Ahmed's house. Her father provided her with means of support against Ahmed's return, when he would claim reimbursement with interest. His was a good business brain. She had a girl servant of sixteen years to help her with the daily domestic chores. As Ahmed made no effort whatsoever to communicate with her, she gradually came to the conclusion that he was dead, and she a widow. * * * * *
It chanced one morning that some non-Bengalee youths, and a stalwart young jawan, were passing by Ahmed's house, on the small verandah of which Afroza sat, peeling mangoes, to make pickle. She looked up, and exclaimed: * * * * *
After the youths had departed, Major Iqbal looked at the shaken jawan. He liked the soldier, and had thought of making him his batman. |
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