“If you’re going to bunk the class, we have to get out in 15 minutes,” Lamisa says, poking Faiyaz’s shoulder. “Sooner the better.”
“Are we?” Anushka looks at them both.
“I mean……”
“Can I just put in that we possibly have below 50% attendance in the Microeconomics course at this point?”
Anushka gets distracted from the rousing protests from both of her friends as her phone starts to ring. Abbu.
“Hey, Abbu.”
“Anushka, uh……” there’s a pause, “Salim dada just passed away.”
Anushka sits there in silence for two seconds before replying with a quiet, “Oh.”
“Yeah. Jamin bhai has asked for the car to go over, so…”
“I’ll handle it,” Anushka says, already getting up. “Let me call boro bhaiya. You’re busy, I know. I’ll make sure they get your messages. Take care, Abbu.”
The call ends. Picking her bag up, Anushka absently tells her friends she has to leave.
“Now who’s leaving?”
As soon as Faiyaz says that, though, they both notice the slight, off-putting stiffness in Anushka’s shoulders. Before they can ask, Anushka tells them. “Remember the grandfather that was sick? I went to visit him last week.”
“Salim dada. Your favourite.”
“Yeah. He, uh, passed away a while ago. I’ve to go.” She looks at Faiyaz and Lamisa. “Abbu and Ammu are in Sylhet; they can’t make it. Someone should go, from the family.”
“Yeah, of course.” Lamisa reaches out an instinctive hand to pat Anushka’s shoulder. “You okay, Nushka?”
“Yeah.”
“You need me to drop you home?” Faiyaz asks.
“No. I’ll take the metro home. Then I’ll decide, depending on what Borobhaiya does.” She leaves with a ghost of a smile at her friends. “I’m fine, really dost. I’ll let you guys know when I’m back home.”
As Anushka walks through the Shahbag footpath towards the metro, sending out texts and calls, an absent thought buzzes in a distant part of her brain: it’s an obscenely beautiful day. The mid-February sun shines with absolutely no sympathy for tragedy, and the flower shops are more colourful than ever given Valentine’s week. Just her luck, Anushka thinks with unnecessary vengeance towards the universe, and calls her elder cousin.
“Hey, bhaiya.”
“Got the news, I’m assuming.”
“Yeah. What happened?”
Salman, her boro bhaiya, fills her in with details as she recharges her MetroCard and smoothly dodges her way through a crowd onto the platform. Late night thirst, a trip, a fall, a blow to the head, a stroke. It was all a cancer-survivor body could take.
“Right, so do you need the car?”
“If you can spare it. Chacha said to coordinate with you.”
“How many of us are going?”
“I don’t know. Us men would like to go to the mosque, I guess. Then the graveyard. The rest of you—I’m not sure.”
Anushka takes a minute to decide, letting the gentle motion of the metro sway her slightly. “I’m sending Abbu’s car over then. To the mosque. You take that car and use it as needed, then come to the house when you’re done at the graveyard. I’m dropping home now…..”
“I thought you’re at uni.”
“Was. I’m dropping home, I’ll take the other car and drive the rest of us to the house. Tell your mom to be ready in 15. Not too many people, there will be plenty. Just a few of us to help. Maybe just chachi and bhabi.”
The flurry of activity makes it easy, Anushka thinks. Leaving her laptop at home, she picks up the keys to the blue Honda, her phone glued to her ear. The slight exasperation in the voices she hears gives away the madly inappropriate thought nobody can articulate: what a damn inconvenient time to die. Salim Dada’s sons are both out of the country—one in Canada, one in the UK. The only child present is their daughter, Shabnam. Anushka joins the long list of people reassuring them, confirming she will look after their mother and ensure everything goes smoothly until they arrive.
About five hours later, when Anushka finally kills the engine, she takes a minute. She didn’t notice when the sun went down, and she realizes belatedly that she hasn’t eaten. She lets the chilly breeze blow through the car window to clear the scent of food from the backseat.
After dropping relatives off, she had volunteered to pick up the catering. Salim Dada was an extraordinary man, and dying had turned him into a legend; people poured in all day. While the “one big family” sentiment was heartwarming, nobody had the composure to manage the logistics.
Her back aches from lifting her old grandmother from the wheelchair to the bed. Better fitness, Anushka, she mutters, tapping her phone for one last call.
“Hey, mum.”
“Anushka. Got home yet?”
“Just about.”
“Good. How’s everything?”
“Alright, I guess. The burial went smoothly. A lot of people came by. I think we ordered enough food to feed the building. I packed the leftovers and put them in the fridge for Dadumoni. They might need help with a Warison certificate; I told them I’d let Abbu know.” Anushka takes a breath. “That’s all.”
“It’s so sad. And hard,” her mother sighs. “To not have any of the children here for this.”
“Fupi is here.”
“Yeah, yeah. I mean sons. Sons are so much help in these situations, you know. Managing everything, the transportation, the heavy lifting, the legal details. If they were in the country, they would drop everything and come running. All Shabnam can do is probably sit with her mum. I wonder how they managed food and everything today. Thank God for Salman on our end.”
For the first time all day, Anushka smiles—odd, wry, almost a laugh. She stretches her neck, closing the car windows now that the smell is gone.
“Yeah, mum,” she says, punching the button for the elevator. “Thank God for the sons.”
