Old Dhaka

Artwork by Amina

'Such a coarse age nowadays..'
her mother intones
on a big teak-wood bed
like a boat afloat
on a river of opium....

'One,' I say, and stare at the pyramid
of sugar
the grains coarse
as the soles
of her feet....

A tiny bathroom
where she disappears after we
catch our breaths,
a red cement floor, a
tin bucket to hold
the water
the roof
so close...

Downstairs the bottles greenly knock
and Mohammedan Club pennants ripple
black on tenement rooftops
I turn my nose downwind
yes, my zipper is closed.
Thatari Bazar, Shakhari patti, Rishipara, the old Hindu
buildings squat,
knackered, three kitchen stoves to a room...

She had panted, 'Quick, quick,
Mother's in the next room.'
And later fried brinjal
lifting it up, holding it for a moment
poised between white
teeth (sunlight skipping barefoot on spangled fly wings)
then s-i-n-k-s her teeth into turmeric-stained flesh
its juice squirting ssshhhhh
oh the red tongue she had used on me
with the sun hitched at twelve o'clock.
She had giggled
in between the loving: 'She sleeps light
we ought to finish thaka thak fast...'

But no, Mother was dozing
on the shegunkaat -strong bed
dreaming of a blue-bodied muezzin
with a hand-wrought silver paan-bati sinking by her side
so I had paused
(as curses bloomed in Maulvibazar lanes
and Sunni men henna-dyed their hair)
and whispered back, 'Ssshhhhh
it's Friday
don't hurry a good
Muslim on a slow Buriganga ride...'

Fakir Mowla is a writer/translator.