The Courthouse

They came to a door labelled, in Urdu, ‘Family Court’, and as they passed through, Rehana saw her lawyer waiting for her. He flashed a smile, revealing a row of pointed teeth, and waved to the seat beside him. Rehana looked to Faiz, who had put on his gown and was frowning at the scene, as though there was a distant memory that did not match. The room was shabby, the red velvet covering the benches worn to a black shine, the ceiling displaying fans stiff and woolly with dust. Even the lamps attached to the panelled walls gave off only a weak, oily light.

The judge came into the room and flopped unceremoniously into his chair. His only concession to the ritual was the curled white wig he had tossed on his head. The grey ringlets appeared tattered, his own black hair protruding from beyond the wig’s reach. He pounded his gavel and got straight to the point. ‘For what cause are you taking the court’s time today?’

‘Your Lordship, Barrister Faizul Haque. My wife and I are applying for custody of the children of my brother, Iqbal Ehsanul Haque, recently deceased, under section 146 of the Muslim Family Protection Act. We are moving to Lahore next month, Sir, and wish to take the children with us.’

‘Representing Mrs Haque, Your Lordship,’ the lawyer said.

‘Begum Rehana Haque?’ the judge said, scratching under the wig.

‘Yes, Your Lordship,’ Rehana replied, sounding strange to herself, as though she were someone else: a criminal, maybe, or a refugee.

‘How long were you married, Mrs Haque?’

‘Eight years, Your Lordship.’

‘And you have two children?’

‘Yes, Your Honour. Sohail and Maya. Seven and five.’ She steadied herself for the speech.

‘The information is all in the file, Your Lordship,’ the lawyer said.

The judge riffled through some papers, cleared this throat, and began to read. ‘Ah yes. Rehana Haque. Born in Calcutta to Farouq Ali,’ he said. ‘Lost his fortunes before Partition. Family left Calcutta, went to Karachi. Except you, Mrs Haque. You came to Dhaka to marry. Your father died shortly thereafter. Your three sisters live in Karachi. No brothers. Is that right?’

‘Yes, Your Lordship.’

The judge’s face remained impassive. ‘You live in Dhanmondi, Road 5?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your own house, Begum?’

Why wasn’t he asking her anything about the children? ‘Yes.’

‘Your husband owned Triple S Insurance Limited. What is the state of the business?’ He turned to the lawyer.

‘Finished, Your Lordship. Without Iqbal-saab, the business could no longer survive. But Mrs Haque will be getting an allowance.’

‘How much?’

‘Fifteen rupees a month, sir.’ If this seemed a small sum to the judge, he did not say.

The judge turned to Faiz. ‘And what is your prayer, Mr Haque?’

Faiz cleared this throat. ‘Your Lordship, these are difficult times,’ he began solemnly. ‘What would we be without the sanctity of the family? My brother and I were very close. Our parents, peace-be-upon-them, passed away many years ago. I never imagined Iqbal would pass before I did.’ He paused for an expansive sigh. ‘I helped him start the company. Built it from nothing.’

‘Milord, this matter is not relevant to the case.’

Outside Rehana could hear the muezzin call from the courthouse mosque. Her thoughts drifted as the afternoon pressed on. She tried not to think of Mrs Chowdhury’s glucose biscuits.

The lawyer was standing up and raising his finger in protest as Faiz was finishing a sentence: ‘…doubts about her mental state.’

‘Your Lordship,’ said the lawyer, ‘this allegation is completely baseless.’

‘Let me hear it,’ the judge interrupted. ‘You will have your chance.’ A slow yawn travelled through his face.

‘It was a terrible tragedy,’ Faiz continued, smiling indulgently, ‘but I am not sure she has handled it well. After all, she is very young.’

‘Your Lordship!’ the lawyer shouted.

Faiz looked at Parveen with a pained expression, his hands pitched in a gesture of surrender. Parveen glanced back at her husband and nodded serenely. ‘Your Lordship, it is with great regret that I say this. But Mrs Haque has conducted herself in a most inappropriate manner.’

‘Please continue, Sir.’

‘Rehana — Mrs Haque — has been unable to return to normal after my brother’s death. She refuses to eat. She neglects the children. Sometimes they go to school without their uniforms.’

Rehana saw the judge take out a pen and begin making notes. ‘Your Lordship,’ she said, ‘I can explain.’

‘Yes please, Madam,’ he replied slowly, displaying an exaggerated patience.

Should she tell him about the children now? ‘My husband died in Ramzaan. I was fasting then.’

The judge did not seem to understand. His eyebrows were still lifted in query.

‘He died on a Friday,’ she went on, ‘and it was Ramzaan. And I am still fasting.’ She saw the judge regarding her now, and noticing the narrowness of her wrists, the tendons of her neck. She saw him running through the possibilities: would she be an angry widow? A sad, weeping widow? A chest-beater? Ah yes, she heard him thinking. Starving Widow. But what to do? Should she be pitied? Berated? Taught a lesson? Rehana could see the judge was not yet sure. She tucked her feet under the sari, hoping he would not notice the rubber slippers.

‘You’re fasting.’

‘Yes.’

‘As though it were still Ramzaan.’

‘Yes.’

‘Every day? Sunrise till sunset?’

‘Yes, Milord.’

‘And the children?’

‘The children are fine.’

‘Ask her what they eat, Milord,’ Faiz said.

She suddenly couldn’t remember. She tried to conjure up an image of the children at the table, munching on their favourite snacks. Then it came to her — yes, of course. ‘Mrs Chowdhury. They have lunch with Mrs Chowdhury and her daughter.’

‘Who is Mrs Chowdhury?’

‘A neighbour, Milord,’ Faiz interjected. ‘No relation.’ When the judge stayed silent, Faiz continued. ‘Milord, she fasts every day. She doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink. Sun-up to sundown. And then she has iftar, as if it were still Ramzaan — all the iftar foods — dates, fried eggplant, jalebis, everything. Is this normal, Milord? And those poor children.’ Faiz looked earnest, almost desperate. ‘One day I went over and they were wearing their party clothes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They were dressed up!’

‘Where were they going?’

‘Nowhere, Your Honour. The poor lady goes nowhere.’

‘They were doing a scene, Milord.’ How could she explain the fatherless mystery of her children? ‘I just wanted to cheer them up.’

‘A scene? What scene?’

‘The Importance of Being Earnest, sir.’

‘This is nonsense,’ Faiz said. ‘We are wasting the court’s time.’

The judge’s eyes were far away. ‘Yes, it’s true, we are in a hurry.’ And then he said, a little regretfully, ‘Mrs Haque, do you really think you can take care of these children by yourself? Do you have the resources? Have you thought about what your husband might have wanted?’

At the mention of Iqbal, the events of the last three months came back in a flood. She could see him now, wrapped in his burial shroud, the cotton stuffed into his nostrils, his dark lids, his shadowy mouth. And there were Maya and Sohail standing above him and saying nothing, staring at the picture of the dead man, their noses full of attar and incense burned to hide the smell, and outside the sweets in cardboard boxes, and a white curtain pinned across the lawn to separate the mourning women and the mourning men.

‘I don’t know,’ Rehana heard herself saying, ‘I don’t know what he would have wanted. He would want them to be safe, I suppose. Yes, he would want them to be safe.’

‘It’s not safe here,’ Faiz said. ‘That is why my wife and I are moving to Lahore.’

‘You are willing to take care of these children?’

‘I will love them as my own, Your Lordship.’

‘Mrs Haque, perhaps this will give you a chance to recover.’

She hadn’t taken the children anywhere. She had been reluctant to admit their father was really dead. She had refused to explain janat and the afterlife to them. And there was that time Maya had found her sprawled underneath the garden tap. She nodded to the judge.

The judge nodded back.

Immediately, she changed her mind. ‘Oh no, you can’t do it!’

‘Please, Mrs Haque, compose yourself.’

Compose. She was a hysterical widow.

‘You will take these children to Lahore?’ the judge asked Faiz.

‘Yes, your Lordship. There are excellent schools in Karachi. And none of this revolution business.’

Lahore was so far away. It was on the other side of a thousand miles of India. What a map they have drawn us, Rehana thought, and if I had known it would put a continent between me and my children I would have killed that map-maker myself. My son is seven years old. Seven years old. He was born on July 8, 1952. If only they had let her begin with that.

But it was too late. She looked to the right, past the lawyer and into the corridor, where the painted courthouse pillars gleamed in the afternoon sun, and to her left, where a magpie had paused on the high branch of a banyan tree. One for sorrow, Rehana said to herself. Two for joy. The judge was announcing his verdict; she tried not to hear it. If she didn’t hear the words, perhaps what was to follow would not follow. The judge’s gavel would not be pounded; he would not rise as though his business was finished; a flat, unpleasant smile would not make its way to Faiz’s mouth; Parveen’s heels would not fall satisfyingly on to the marble floor, and she would not crumple, passing the lawyer’s outstretched hand, avoiding the bench that might have broken her fall. Her sari would not have ballooned around her knees. And yet, the moment did pass, the judge did his duty, Faiz and Parveen theirs, and Rehana fell, as she might, at the knowledge that she had given her children away.

The lawyer made a final attempt to change the judge’s mind. ‘Your Lordship,’ he cried out, ‘please do not make a hasty decision!’

From the ground where she lay Rehana heard the judge exhale a long, irritated breath. She heard it in snatches: ‘This court’s time has already been wasted…martial law…country…chaos… And then: ‘That is all. Dismissed.’