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Love

Shaheedul Jahir
(translated by Mohammad Simon Rahman)
The moment Hafizuddi crossed the entrance to the Babupura slum. Maola saw him "Hey. Hafizuddi.where did you get that from, eh?" Maola shouted.
Maola was Hafizuddi's neighbor. Somewhat on the skinny side, with a long face, he would squat under the hugel debdaru tree the whole day with his betel-leaf and cigarettes for sale. Hafizuddi did not bother looking at Maola. nor about answering his query.
He found Abeda near the communal tap in the slum. She had just returned from her work as a housemaid A familiar scene was playing in front of him. Someone was washing her face, body bent towards the tap. Karam Ali's little daughter was washing something by the side. Abeda was sitting beside her side rubbing her back. Hafizuddi stood at a little distance from the tap and called out, “Abeda. come here."
With a start Abeda looked up to see Hafizuddi go inside the shack She caught just a glimpse of him, but long enough to see the thing in his hand. She felt amazed. Has he lost his mind, she wondered, otherwise why would he come home with a flower in his hand? And why would he call for her in such a manner? Would he put it in her bun like a hero from a film? She hastily made a bun of her wet hair. She felt bad about her hair - it felt like some coarse and dry fiber. How could one tuck a flower in such kind of hair?
“Isn’t there a bottle in the house?" Hafizuddi asked Abeda as soon as she entered the room.
"Hmmm... but why do you need that?" Abeda brought out a bottle from a dark corner of the room. She slowly, unobtrusively untied her bun.
“I'll keep it in the bottle. Go fill it with some water.”
Abeda went out and filled the bottle from the tap. Hafizuddi cut the long stem of the flower and then put into the bottle. The yellow of the massive dahlia looked out of place in
the darkness of the room.
"Isn't that beautiful?" Hafizuddi asked, looking at the flower.
Abeda looked at Hafizuddi, at his delight. She said. Yes, it is. Where did you get it from?”
"On the college grounds. Everybody was-, collecting flowers for Martyr's Day tomorrow, so I got one for myself too."
"That's nice," Abeda said, surprising herself with the softness of her own voice.
“Are you going out again?” she asked.
"Ummm..." Hafizuddi said as he went towards the bucket kept near the door.
“Since you've come around now, eat something before you leave," Abeda said.
"Eat what?" Hafizuddi stopped.
"There’s some rice.”
"Rice? Where did you get it? Have you eaten yourself?"
“1 don’t have to. I've eaten at Bibi Saheb's place," Abeda lied; it was not the first time that she had lied to her husband. Hafizuddi then nodded his head, asking, "I don't see Tahura around, where's she?"
"I don't know. Maybe she's outside
somewhere playing."
"You should keep an eye on her.
She might get lost."
"Where would she go?" said Abeda. "I'm leaving now. Shut the door when you leave."
There was too little rice to eat, and Hafizuddi ate it very quickly. Abeda came back to the hut with a broken silver-colored tin pot in her hand and said, "Couldn't even have a wash, there's no water anymore!"
She dropped her half-wet sari and put on a dry one. She used the wet one for rubbing her wet hair, then made a cord of the sari and whipped her hair with it. Drops of water sprayed the room, slicing through the air. Hafizuddi was annoyed.
"What re you doing, slapping the c hair on my face?" f Abeda did not answer. She spread her hair over her shoulders. Eyeing the £ flower kept in a corner of the room € she asked. "What are you going to do w with that?"
"With what...?” Hafizuddi asked as he washed his hand, and then wiped his face with his wet hand.
"With this.. the flower.”
"What would I do with that?"
“That's what I'm asking too." Abeda sat near the bottle and gently caressed the soft petals of the flower with her hand.
"Nothing. Just let it be there." Hafizuddi wiped his face with his lungi and got up.
"It will wither," Abeda said.
Hafizuddi did not reply as he picked up the huge bucket from the door. “Keep a watch on it, otherwise someone might steal it!' he warned before going out of the door.
“As if people have nothing better to do than steal your flower,” Abeda replied, smiling as she said it.
Once Hafizuddi left, she picked up the flower from the bottle and caressed it for a long time. She tied her hair again into a bun and tried to stick it in there, but the heavy flower fell every time she tried to. Eventually she held it in her hand alongside her bun and
looked at herself in the little mirror. But it did not satisfy her; she felt like going out into the • broad daylight. But she knew she could not, there were too many people outside. Then Tahura suddenly entered the room, coated in dust.
"What's that, Ma, who brought that?" "Your father. Don't even touch it, or he'll kill you!”
Daylight had turned to dusk, and evening was falling by the time Abeda returned home after her afternoon work at the Sahib's place. While coming back, she saw Hafizuddi having a chat with Maola sitting under the debdaru tree. Tahura was looking at the cars streaming by on the road from her father's lap. She sprinted to her mother when she saw her mother returning from work.
Abeda went in and began preparing for the evening meal. She was feeling quite hungry. The meal was going to consist of lentils and rutis. Outside it was dark as she put the lentils on the fire and started to make the chapattis.
When she was done, she lit a small kerosene-wick light and sent out Tahura to call Hafizuddi to eat. After Hafizuddi entered the shack, she served him dal on a tin plate. There was a separate plate for Tahura. They started eating. Abeda joined them in eating, tearing the bread into small pieces and dipping them in the dal.
Hafizuddi sat on a piece of wood and ate silently with his head bowed down. Tahura was spilling a lot of her food, and Abeda scolded her, “Such a big girl, you haven't yet learned how to eat properly!”
Hafizuddi looked at his daughter. Then he asked "Why did you put your hands on the flower?"
It took Abeda a little time to realize who he was addressing. “Who, me?" she asked back.
"Then who else? Yes!"
"Why would I touch the flower?”
Abeda began to get upset. "And what is the harm in that anyway?"
“Don't you lie to me. Didn't you put the flower in your hair?”
Now Abeda realized what he was talking about. "Who told you that, tell me," she answere.
"Nobody said anything. I found your hair on the flower myself!”
Abeda understood that it was no use of taking it any further. But she felt uneasy about admitting to anything. So she replied, smiling. "Perhaps the hair fell over it when I was drying my hair in the afternoon.”
Hafizuddi failed to see the smiling expression on her face as he shouted, "You oldiu bitch, don't you lie to me! You're making me very angry!"
Abeda controlled her own rage somehow. She felt like giving Tahura a good beating. Inwardly she raged; The little bitch! Couldn't even keep one little secret locked away inside her!
"So now you can have the flower, happy?" Hafizuddi's words broke the silence inside the room.
His offer was so sudden that Abeda did not even get the chance to be surprised by the remark. She finally asked, "What will I do with the flower?" JO1
"Do whatever you feel like.”
There was no tenderness in Hafizuddi's n( voice. Neither did Abeda have the time to think about his words. Yet an unknown n-y happiness stirred deep inside her. It felt to her like the soothing drops of rain on dry earth
After finishing his meal, Hafizuddi went out for an after-meal walk. Tahura feared her mother was going to beat her up. She did not know what spell her father had cast on her mother before he went out. Abeda put away the pots and pans in silence.
"Make your bed and go to sleep," she told Tahura. Tahura had not quite learnt how to make her bed properly. So Abeda went with her and laid her on the bed. Tahura pulled the quilt up to her throat and pleaded, "Ma, 1 want the flower."
Abeda went back to finish up her work She noticed Tahura looking at her, the dim flickering light of the small flame reflecting in her eyes. Finishing her work Abeda went to Tahura, leaned down and blew the lamp out. Then she bent down towards Tahura and her lips kissed her daughter's forehead.
Mohammad Simon Rahman is a wnter and translator with , " the literary group SLASH.