the twins

i was 11 years old when i met them. i was terrified at first because they were so dark and sinister looking. people talked about how vicious they were in their youth. the terror of the neighborhood. how they were in the army (under major zia's command) and got solitaries regularly. their own nieces and nephews were afraid of them as well. why wouldn't i be?

then one day in the hallway (this was a time when i couldn't still tell them apart), one of them stopped me and said: come here - hold this up to the light and see, handing me a small opaque gem. i was too scared to refuse so i numbly took the piece and did as instructed. inside the stone i saw sparks like sun bursts. i looked back at the man standing next to me and he grinned like a child with a secret. i was afraid no more.

for the next 8 years, bhalo (and his brother) became the father to me that my own wouldn't, and the father they couldn't be to their own children (eight of them in all). we talked about politics, history, religion, music, humor, culture, ancient civilizations, the justice system, human rights, morals and ethics, and spirituality. they encouraged me to speak my mind like an equal. and most of all, they urged me to write.
they taught me the power of the written word. the sanctity of it. they taught me to be courageous, truthful (with a kind of tough love) and confident. i became smarter than i was probably meant to be - just by trying to keep up with them. sometimes whole hours would be spent speaking in english (they were educated in england and america) which improved my language skills and gave me the edge i have today.
they talked about mir jumla like he was the boy next door. and then later when i looked him up in the pages of history i did not find him to be much different. they had photographic memories and they were seldom wrong about facts and figures. of course, with time, we did have some ideological differences but that was dealt with respect.
these men laughed loud enough to make the rafters reverberate and they knew how to have a good time in the confines of their minds. they sang 60s songs in loud baritones.
at a time when my school friends were reading trashy calcutta fiction i was discussing jalaluddin rumi's poetry with them.
on my birthday the antique-cabinet doors were thrown open for me to choose something that i liked. anything at all.
i reached beyond my capacities to make them proud and they were - at my little achievements. one day when i couldnt do a simple bit of math in my head (i did actually but i was too embarrassed of being wrong, and didnt answer) palam looked at me with such sadness that it was crushing.

these strangers hugged me and kissed me - made me feel precious and significant. and they never failed to tell me that i was beautiful.
...
two years ago i visited them. palam had lost his mental equilibrium and spent his days mumbling to himself. bhalo couldnt get up from bed due to severe migraine and back pain. it seemed that time had forgotten these two brilliant minds and passed them by.
palam's children were walking about the dimlit house in hand-me-down clothes. those chandeliers and antique leather couches had been replaced by practical wicker.
palam's oldest child could not add her individual subject scores to give me her total grade for that year. and i remembered how her dad had rebuked me for much less. and i was thankful. but i felt like i had usurped their birth right by being there at the prime of their father's life. i wished to make it up to these children some day.

alta

nana would sometimes bring me a mimi candy bar on his way back from work. and on rare occasions - like the day before eid - he would bring me a bottle of alta, that red liquid like mercurochrome (or was it mercurochrome?).
after lunch and a short nap, he would take a thin wooden stick and wrap cotton wool to one end. then he would sit me down somewhere safe where i would not smear the wet liquid on nani's white linen. and carefully he would draw red lines around the soles of my feet. i did not care too much for the color like other girls my age did, nor did i care about the uneven lines where his hands shook a little, even though i have always been a perfectionist. i didnot ever question the purpose of this drawing, although i was not into dressing up or getting made up at the time.
for me that cold tingly feeling was delight enough.
if i close my eyes, i can still remember that wet coldness on dry baby skin.