ON a night like this, she would not have been out. But tonight, it was different.
Afzal’s friends had called up from a phone booth at midnight and said he was missing. Ameen said that he had been very drunk when they last saw him.
Ammi was already in the next room, kneeling near the west window, breathing heavily, head covered, muttering again and again: ‘bismillah hir rahmaanir raheem, bismillah hir rahmaanir raheem, bismillah hir rahmaanir raheem’.
Zeenat had stood in front of the mirror for a few minutes, wondering, looking at her own image as she toyed with the burkha in her hands. Abbu’s photograph hung limp on the wall behind her, frame askew, slightly discoloured, his black-and-white spectacles shiny against the grimy bricks. She closed her eyes; it was ten years since Abbu died on that bed, ten years since that last janaza prayer that still rang in her ears.
She wrapped the burkha around herself and left. It was the last day of the celebrations and the streets were bursting with fireworks, Hindi film music and the deafening noise of drums. The procession to immerse the goddess would start from the Park Circus maidan in a few hours; the crossing was already full of people wishing catch a last glimpse of the goddess before she disappeared into the waters for a year.
Ameen had said they had last seen Afzal near the pandal, tottering and screaming at the guards, screaming abuses at the goddess. Then he had apparently disappeared into the crowds, as the guards came after him. Ameen had said they were afraid he would be arrested.
Afzal was eighteen, he had dropped out of school at fourteen; Zeenat was twenty-six, a receptionist at a private hospital and very tired of her life. It was a good half hour past midnight when Zeenat entered the park and began to walk towards the pandal, looking everywhere in the crowd of faces for a sign of Afzal. All around, in chairs that girdled the immense grandiose pandal, people were sitting – mostly young men – in dhotis, pyajamas, embroidered kurtas. Some were evidently very drunk. They spoke loudly. They stared at her as she passed. One raised a finger, significantly. Someone sang: ‘Pardeh main rahne do, pardah na uthao, pardah uthh gaya toh…’, and whistled. He had a strong Bengali accent. His friends laughed loudly. Zeenat quickened her pace; the world looked very dark from behind the veil. It was as if there was a thin black film of dust on everything, and the lights shone grey on her face. There was no sign of Afzal. The boy in the kurta had followed her with one of his friends; they caught up with her behind the pandal. It was dark there, not too many people. Zeenat stared back as the boys leered: “Mera naam hai Shabnam, pyar se log mujhe Shabbo kahte hain.” Some girls in bright sarees and skirts passed them by, looking at her curiously and whispering. The boys did not turn around; they focussed on her, inching closer with every word. Zeenat walked backwards till she was pressed against the shiny cloth of the pandal, which caved in with her weight. There was a loud burst of light on the night sky, a cracker had gone off. The boys looked up, distracted. Zeenat ran. The air smelt of expensive alcohol. On the other side of the pandal, where the lights were brighter, she stood panting, peeling off her burkha, as people stared.
She wrapped it up in a bundle, shoved it into her bag and sighed. She felt safer. She walked a little way into the crowds.
People were no longer staring.
Time to look for Afzal.
BY Trina Nileena Banerjee, Times Of India, Kolkata