part 03

Chapter 03

smoke and mirrors






It has been almost been a month that Shireen’s been back at the palace. And she has fully recovered from the post-birth conditions. And some palace it is. More of a classic red-bricked 19th-century 20 bedroom mansion that houses almost every surviving direct descendents of Khan Bahadur Mursheed Ali. It’s all lost in time, the story of a just-above-average servant of the British empire, Mursheed Ali, becoming the classic example of a jomidar or a prince almost. Yet the people on this side of the Kornofuly river have decided to forget so and remember only his magnanimity and how he helped put the name of Chittagong on the map. And today, the day in our story, is a big day - a huge day for Mahmud and his wife Shireen. It’s the day Abu Akter Mohammad Mahmud Mashrur’s being given his name.



It’s just another reason to have almost the entire family tree over and waste food and make small talk and frequently back-bite about the others in the bloodline, especially the women. Doesn’t matter how holy or significant it is, as soon as the ceremony is over does the chatter and the clanging of the crockery and the hullabaloo of the guests’ kids start drowning the relatives’ cackling and gossiping in the rooms’ corners – all busy with their partners and friends in their little huddles, discussing business and cussing under their breaths the good fortunes of the other people in the other groups. How ironic. If only they’d known.



To an outsider it looked like just another Chittagonian family gathering, the occasion being the son of the eldest surviving member being given his name – albeit a little late. What he’d never know - but Shireen had known since almost the third month of her marriage to Mahmud - is that these were none but vultures who had gathered only to put up a show of solidarity with the others and her hubby, and that they’d take a u-turn and disappear at the slightest hint of Mahmud being in trouble or even worse – Mahmud asking for a favor. What was worse, was that among the vultures were his first cousins – and that included the bumbling wanna-be politician in the east corner of the dining room (chatting away, or rather flirting away, with the buxom pretty wife of his distant cousin), the hotshot cardiologist who had just bagged (read arm-twisted and threatened her way to) the 50% share she had always lusted after in the biggest private clinic in town. This list of black sheep also included the colonel accompanying the doctor – whose hush-hush yet significant role in securing the Chittagong part of the army coup 2 years ago is still talk of the town; and that has got nothing to do with his either the pot belly hanging sickeningly down from above his waist, or that pruned-twice-a-day waxed abomination of a moustache. Not to mention the sleekly dressed almost 6 feet tall third eldest of the family, who headed up the shipping and transport business; who had also, in broad daylight made away with property worth millions within a space of 27 days. And all these and even more in a family whose combined wealth would put all these individuals within the top 15 richest family of the People’s Republic of Bangladesh.





“Such gathering of hyenas, almost all here. And yet I can’t bust their real selves out in the open. What a waste of opportunity. Or perhaps even better - Allah will dish out His proper justice when time’s right. After all He won’t allow injustice and mockery of honesty to continue, I believe. Who am I to decide anyways? Oh rubbish, let’s be done with entertaining them well. Mahmud and I have a reputation to keep, after all.” chuckled Shireen to herself, and with this thought she walked into the dining room with both her hands occupied by the delicious pudding just out of the freezer. This was one thing that every guest in her house needed to taste – she will absolutely let no one leave without sampling it. The younglings scampering and meandering through the furniture legs and between the parents’ stopped in their tracks; after all, they all were number one true fans of Aunt Shireen’s out-of-this-world dessert. And as soon as she was satisfied that the desserts were safely tucked away at one corner by the wall on the grand dining table, with the table itself being loaded to the brim by at least 15 mouth-watering dishes, Shireen called out to everyone to help themselves to lunch.




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“Aww that was fantastic Bhabi. How did you even manage such a grand feat on your own?”
“ooh Bhabi!! I’m coming tomorrow to learn from you how on earth you make such delights. And tomorrow it is for sure”.
“Aawww Bhabeee, you ARE going to come to my house this Friday, right? To taste my version of your pudding? Oh please oh please say Yes!”





……..and it went on and on, and she was as polite as ever with that smile of humility and gently reminding them all that she had a great guy to shop for her and a great housemaid to help her along. And in the midst of all that, all she needed was just one quick look in the eyes and she could tell none of them meant the words they were saying, even the smallest fraction. The almost-naked loathing in their eyes gave the game away - except to Mahmud, who always took them as they came. So lame were their feeble attempts of making a well-publicized attempt of being in the good books of their Bhabi. The title Bhabi did go well with Shireen, being the wife of the eldest son of the family. She pitied them a bit, no anger or hatred, just plain simple pity, for she knew how cheap and frivolous they were, how easily they could turn their backs at each other when any one of them was in need of help of any kind. And yet, yet they would come out in force at any family ceremony or some other party or occasion and make a display of that completely non-existent thing called unity and fellow-feeling, making the rest of the world wrongly fathom the depth and strength and unity and fellow-feeling among the descendants’ families of Khan Bahadur Mursheed Ali. If only people knew how brittle the entire structure is, how corrupt and disintegrated the family has become.





“Mami, can you give me another helping of this pudding? I just can’t have enough of it really.” Shireeen was jolted out of her 30-second reverie by Nusrat, her hubby’s eldest niece. (“oh, at least there’s one good soul around!” she thought.)
“Sure! At least YOU don’t need to ask me Nusrat. Just take it. It’s all there for you sweetheart.”, beamed Shireen
--“Gee Mami, you are too sweet with me. So where’s the pot or the plate or whatever you keep this creation of yours?”
“you need another pair of glasses you blind bat! Hihihi it’s right behind you, love!” laughed Shireen.
--“yeah sure. Do remind me to get YOU a pair as well in a decade’s time!” retorted Nusrat playfully.
“Oh really! As if you are going to be my damned optician?!?!”
--“yeah yeah go ahead. Say whatever makes you happy. In the meantime, let me wipe your stock of puddings clean Mami. After that only, we can talk. See ya!” and she almost ran away in a whirlwind of pink-and-yellow stirred up by the orna and the lacy ends of her shalwar n kameez.






Ah, the innocence – thought Shireen. Nusrat, bein in her early 20s, always reminded her of her own early youth in her village all those years ago – the care-free days of being around and mingling with the green blessings of nature; the stormy and thundery nights of Summer and running around wildly in packs in those nights, making away with the ripened mangoes and jackfruits and what-not in the orchards of people they weren’t supposed to trespass in; the perfumed and vividly colorful days and afternoons of the long-lost days of Spring; such picture perfect days with the siblings, such joy and fun and silly childish rage at her younger siblings – all wiped away that night, the night they heard over the radio of the military going on the offensive to crack down on the freedom seekers of her great nation; that fateful night 12 years ago……






--“Wow, Bhabi, where did you get this 3 year old sari? Mahmud’s not being miserly with his only wife, I suppose!” smirked Shuchonda , the wife of Mahmud’s eldest cousin, as she came and stood by Shireen, having dealt with the second assault on the chicken curry and shrimps and vegetable and the plate having been safely disposed off with the maid sweating away in the kitchen.
“Oh Shuchonda, don’t be silly! Yes the design could be 3 years old but its one of those that I love – see the pattern at the borders?? And After all, Mahmud got me this the day I came home from the hospital. A bit silly, but lovely. Exquisitely lovely. Even if it was black and white only, I’d still have worn it."
--“uh-oh Bhabi, we ought to get your wardrobe and our Big Bro’s taste seasoned. In other words, you are going out shopping Wednesday, with us – you know, just me and Shunoyona and Deeba and Fahmida. What do you say?” enquired she, batting her long-lashed eyes.

“this Wednesday, or is it next December’s first Wednesday, Chonda? When was the last time you actually did something you said would do.” Shireen quietly thought.
“Oh that would be lovely ‘Chonda!”, however, was what reached Shuchonda’s ears, accentuated by Shireen’s broad smile of acceptance of offer. I’ll be ready dear Chonda, with my money, and I hope you actually turn up this time for a change – was also what she decided not to tell Shuchonda.

--“Now that’s like my sweet bhabi. Come on lets join the gossip with the other girls. We have a lot to catch up with.” With this she took hold of Shireen’s arm and pulled her away to the mini-circle of chairs by the window where some of the other wives were already sitting. Shireen didn’t mind much, because after all, everyone else was done with the gobbling down and she needed a bit of rest too. What better way to that than sitting with the wives of hubby’s cousins and making some real girly chatter? “Not too bad an idea, Shuchonda!” she said out loud.