Water dripping from her hair, soothing floral smells of soap and shampoo protecting her against the putrid smell all around, she walks back to her box of a room. But at the moment, it’s not suffocating. That fear of being choked under patches of plastic sheets does not bother her any more.
Nor does the thought of the wobbly shanties coming down one night to bury her. It’s cool, quiet now – the world at peace with itself. A soothing breeze from the canal slips in through unseen gaps in the shack’s corrugated tin walls.
Rabeya opens her small, rusty trunk and takes out a handloom sari. Against the bright yellow background, the red flower motif shimmers. A man comes every other month selling things from Bangladesh – saris, DVDs of Dhaka movies, music tapes.
She bought this Tangail sari from him. Holding the sari under the light bulb, she pores over the design. The intricate needlework with golden zari lends weight, richness to the sari’s borders.
When she unfolds seven yards of fine fabric, an old, comforting smell fills the little room. It brings back life in Khulna: busy sari shops in Daulatpur Bazaar, mounds of vermicelli under the awnings, men returning home from the big cities of Dhaka, Khulna and Chittagong, crowded launches whistling to drop anchor. The warm aromas of rich food – biryani, zarda, semai, payesh – waft out of every kitchen in the village.
That’s Eid. Then, things were different. Abba was still her abba and hadn’t taken a new bride.
Her mo.