'What do you mean?' said Nazneen senselessly.

'My husband is dead. The work has killed him.'

The rage, thought Nazneen. It killed him.

'At the slaughter place. They were going to load up, but there was an accident.'

Nazneen tried to find words.

'Killed by falling cows. He was only alone a few moments and when they went back in he was underneath the cows. Seventeen frozen cows. All on top of him.' She looked at Nazneen. Her mouth twitched. 'This is how it ended,' she added. 'And the mosque not even built.'

'The children 'At Mrs Islam's.' She shrugged slightly. 'People came. Made tea, made wailing and that sort of thing. I told them I wanted to be on my own. But when they had gone, I didn't want to be on my own with . . . you know. I kept thinking about those cows. So I came here.'

Nazneen took hold of her hand and massaged it inch by inch, to rub away a little of the pain, to absorb some for herself. The machines purred with satisfaction and the screens played out their endless dance. Somewhere, behind walls, a woman shouted in indistinct anguish. The disinfected floor shone dully beneath their feet and gave off its smell of neutered grief.

Razia groaned. 'I can get that job now. No slaughter man to slaughter me now.'

She walked into a lunatic's room. Signs of madness everywhere. The crushing furniture stacked high, spread out, jumbled up. Papers and books strewn liberally lewdly! over windowsills, tables, floor. Alarming rugs of every colour, deviously designed to confuse the eye and arrest the heart. Corner cabinet and glass showcase panting with knick-knacks. Yellow wallpaper lined up and down with squares and circles. The clutter of frames that fought for space on the walls. Someone, delirious, had wired plates to those same walls so that it appeared that the crockery was trying to escape.

How quickly she had grown used to the hospital. With a sigh, she realized how quickly she would grow used to this room again. She examined the nearest chair. She did not remember it. To get to the far end of the room she had to climb over the glass-topped, orange-legged coffee table. The cane-backed chair had had its bottom removed. Two lone hairy strings were rigged loosely across the hole. To the side lay a ball of twine and a pair of pliers. So the chair-restoring business had begun. She picked up the pliers, thinking they were dangerous to leave around with Raqib coming home so soon. She picked up three pens, a notebook and a mug, then put them all down again to gather up a stray nappy, half a biscuit and an empty cocoa tin that Raqib had used as a drum. Let's be systematic, she thought, and set everything on the floor. Have a bath first, then make space in the kitchen drawers, then tidy things away. If she was quick, there would be time to call on Razia. (This is the tragedy, Chanu had said. Man works like a donkey. Working like a donkey here, but never made a go. In his heart, he never left the village. Here, Chanu began to project his voice. What can you do? An uneducated man like that. This is the immigrant tragedy.) Hanufa came to the door before Nazneen got to the bathroom. 'I've been watching for you,' she said. 'I've brought some food.'

Nazneen took the containers. 'My husband has been cooking.'

'I know,' said Hanufa. 'But I didn't know what else to bring.'

Nazneen soaped herself with a bar of Pears, washed her hair with Fairy Liquid and, when she had finished, dusted between her toes with baby talc. In the bedroom, she stood in her underskirt and choli and looked through her saris. The wardrobe doors touched the side of the bed, making another black-walled room inside a room. A pair of Chanu's trousers lay on the floor of the wardrobe. Another pair draped over a chair that was wedged beneath the hanging clothes. She picked them up, stepped out of her underskirt and put them on. To see herself she had to stand on the bed and look in the curly-edged dressing-table mirror. Then she could see only her legs, and ducked and twisted to try to gain an impression of the whole. She took the trousers off, put her underskirt back on and hitched it up so that it stopped at the knees. Walking over the bedspread, she imagined herself swinging a handbag like the white girls. She pulled the skirt higher, and examined her legs in the mirror. She walked towards the headboard, turning her trunk to catch the rear view, a flash of pants. Close to the wall, eyes to the mirror, she raised one leg as high as she could. She closed her eyes and skated off. Ridiculous. Her leg wobbled. She opened her eyes and was thrilled by her slim brown legs. Slowly, she drew the left leg up and rested the heel on the inside of her right thigh. She tried to spin and got caught up in the bedspread, and fell on the mattress, giggling.

Now, she thought, where's the harm? She rolled over to wrap herself up in the bed covers and decided to float free for a while. Nothing came to her mind. She stared at the ceiling. Remember to pack his hat, she thought. He'll need that for the journey home. Then nothing. The fridge needs cleaning. More toilet roll. She slapped the bed. Write to Hasina. That was better. Wash a few clothes out, before too much piles up. No, no, no. She pulled the cover over her head. Ice e-skating, she said aloud. Torvill and Dean. Still nothing. She got out of bed and dressed quickly. Then she found pen and paper and a book to rest on and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

My dearest sister, she began, and chewed on the end of the pen. I am well and my husband also. Raqib was ill but now he is better. She chewed some more. The thought of writing was always pleasant, but the process was painful. However much she thought of to tell, however the words flowed in her head as she performed her chores, despite the emotion that swelled and throbbed while the storylines formed, the telling was inevitably brief and blunt, a poor thing, stunted as a failed crop. We took him to hospital, she wrote. I was very sad, and then suddenly I was very happy, even before he was better. Soon I will bring him home. She read it over. Then crumpled the page. On a fresh sheet she wrote: My dearest sister, I hope you are well. Thank you for your letter. Raqib was very ill but better now. We took him to hospital. A strange thing happened. I sat beside him and felt happy. Not happy for him to be ill, but happy about something inside myself. Chanu has given up his job. He is well. I hope you are well.

She reviewed the composition, crossed out the last sentence where she had repeated herself. She changed but better now to but now he is better. Then crossed out the part about being happy. She chewed on the end of the pen.

She would have to explain more carefully. She tried to think it through. What had made her so happy? She drew a face and made it smile. I fought for him. She added a matchstick body. Not accepting. Fighting. She drew a flower and gave it a long stem. Fate! Fate business. A bird, she attempted a bird, but it looked more like a coat hanger. I move my pen. This way. That way. Began an elephant and turned the back legs to a horse. Nobody else here. Nobody else moving this pen.

Now she wrote again. My dearest sister, I hope everything is well with you. The baby has been sick in hospital, but we expect to bring him home soon. Chanu has given up his job. I do not worry, and you must not worry. When the baby is home, I will write again. A long letter next time. Pray God keep you safe.

She tidied the flat and tried to make some space in the sitting room by piling furniture. Once she had finished piling she prodded the stacks and watched them wobble. Then she began unpiling. She worked quickly and rehearsed out loud asking the bus conductor for a ticket. Suddenly the thought came to her that she had killed Razia's husband. Raqib was meant to die, but she had forced Death away. Death was forced to choose again. Be gone from me! she shouted. Be gone! Back to hell, where you belong. And with these words, banished the jinn that had danced, briefly, spitefully, through the room and into her head.

By the time she reached the courtyard she had forgotten the jinn. The sun was out and the now familiar but still nameless tree on the corner showed pale green buds. The grass, brave despite the odds, was attempting new growth. A fresh dog turd steamed gently on black tarmac. The concrete had been covered over, and the tarmac smelled of rubber and essence of car fume. It undermined the smell of shit, even when Nazneen stepped over the mess. Sun on her face felt good; she would have liked to feel it on her legs. When she passed a group of young Bangla men on the path, they parted and bowed with mock formality. One remained straight and still and she caught his look, challenging or denying. Another lad fell to his knees. Oh, oh. I'm dying. She's breaking my heart! Nazneen pulled her headscarf over her face to hide her lips that flickered up at the corners and parted and twitched again.

Hospital, hospital, hospital. She had another English word. She caressed it all the way down the corridor. Chanu did not hear her come in, or he heard and did not turn round. She put her hand on his shoulder, and was surprised as always at how thin it was. There was a little spot on the top of his head, an angry little spot among the thin weeds of hair. He did not look up. Then she saw the empty cot. Raqib had been taken for more tests. 'Gone?' said Nazneen.

'He's gone,' said Chanu and looked up at her. His stomach pressed forward beneath his shirt.

'Don't worry. They won't take long. They'll give him back to us soon.'

Chanu blinked. His eyes seemed more beleaguered than ever. 'Will you wash him? I don't think I can wash him.'

'I always give him his bath.' Nazneen went to sit.

The room was quieter than usual, a quietness that rose somehow above the muted din of the hospital. The machines were off, that's what it was.

'Sponge bath,' said Nazneen. 'That's how I've been doing it.'

Chanu's head hung forward. He did not talk. The action man was not talking. Neither was he doing. Nazneen regarded the plastic cups by the sink, the towels and clothes playing havoc on the pull-down bed where she and Chanu took turns sleeping. She sprang up. 'Got to get this straight.'

'God. God,' Chanu moaned. 'Leave it.'

'Action man,' she said, and remembered with a shiver Razia's words: brick man.

'He's not even cold yet! Your son is not even cold. Don't bloody tidy up.'

'My son?' and now, even now, she refused.

Chanu squeezed at his eyes, and some water trickled down his cheeks so that he looked to be wringing out the tears. 'We have to go and get him. They don't bring him back here.'

They don't bring him back here. She was still holding the plastic cups. She picked up another and slotted it into her stack.

'They said they will release the body quickly. They said they know we are Muslim. They know, they said they know, about how quickly we like to bury our dead.'

How quickly we like to bury our dead. She began folding clothes. She picked a stray thread from a vest, pulled fluff off a jumper. Chanu came to her and held her arms. He prised her fingers from Raqib's jacket. To get her to sit he had to push her onto the bed. She let him take her hand in his.

Yes, she would wash him. She brought him in and she would take him out. She had seen babies buried. In the village, babies were buried often. She could remember the funerals, one or two, of cousins who came into the world and left again promptly, as if they had wandered into a room by mistake, apologized and turned back. Little white parcels popped inside a hole and covered with leaves or canes, so that the soil would not stain them, so they left as pristine as they entered. She remembered the burying; of the buried she retained nothing.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

DHAKA, BANGLADESH.

May 1988

God give comfort sister in your dark hour. I say Prayer of Light for you.

O God, place light in my heart, light in my tongue, light in my hearing, light on my right hand and on my left, light before me, light behind me, light above me and light below me. O God, who knows the secrets of our hearts, lead me out of the darkness and give me light.

His soul is in Heaven. I pray for you and for your loving husband.

Hasina September 1988

Sister I have many thing to tell. New address in Narayanganj. fob in new factory I am machinist real woman job now.

Mr Chowdhury tell to pack and not worry. 'Pukka building' he say. 'Bigger room.' He bring in Toyota Land Cruiser. Air conditioning radio ashtray for cigarette and everything. He is father to me. Always he tells 'Anything you need. Any time you in trouble. Come to me.' This is kind of man. Everyone giving him respect.

When we come it is little bit trouble here. Old tenants they have not move. The woman give some abuse. In front of childrens she say foul words. Mr Chowdhurys men help for them to go. Then I clean the room. These people bad tenants never single penny they have pay. Rent is more takas but is big room and it respectable district. Building look like this is long and low a veranda at front and another also at back. My room is at back. Behind is family two sons and three daughter. They have two room. Dawn prayer second I take the mat I hear them begin the happy arguments. Father passing me most days on road on way to work. Tiffin tin tied on his back and the young son sit in handlebars look smart like anything in school uniforms and ringing all the way the bell. Father is clerk at District Court. That is kind of neighbourhood. We have concrete floor very smooth and walls will be plaster inside soon. My room have one wall is already half plaster.

All other room along back full from jute mill mens. Three four in one room. They cooking together at far end the veranda and I keep own area. Mr Chowdhury say if they bother you come to me. I will break hands and legs. No one bothering me. Four five men each room but no mess at all. Half veranda has fence. Other half is stolen. Mr Chowdhury tell to me secretly he thinking the old tenants burn for fuel. Jute men put washings over the top. All is so neat. Lungis vests pyjama one end trousers and shirt keep together.

Railway line pass the building. How easy for the travel! Jute men they hear trains coming jump down from veranda run past coconut trees go down bank sliding and throwing their body onto train. Always stick on somewhere ledge ladder door handle something. This is how they getting to mill.

Today is hartal again. Some mens here sway in hammocks chew pan and spitting. Most gone for rally. Mr Chowdhury say all these strikers lazy like hell and only making holidays. But all and every thing shut down on hartal day so I write everything coming to mind.

He have lot to say about strikers Mr Chowdhury. But he is fair man. He say leaders are same all bad. Managers Judges Politicians Army Trade Unions all gone to bad. When he gets Government contract Mr Chowdhury must do adding twenty-five per cent for cover cost of pay the Minister and Civil Servant. He has supply electric parts for Power Grid. Also he make ceramic toilets and sink. Just think! If he putting the electricity and sink in this building! Maybe when walls finished plastering.

No end of corruption. It make him quite sad in an actual fact. You know he have birthmark over right eye and temple. It go red like fresh cut when he talk of these things. And also as well it itch. Then he begin twirling the cane he only doing when he upset. He has new cane. Ivory on tip and handle look like bird claw and what is made from? Handle if you can believe or if you cannot is gold. He look the gentleman with this cane.

The stories he have tell. One friend has bribe tax collector for receive tax form. Without bribe he will be jail. How to pay the tax without first the form? Mr Chowdhury himself bribing to telephone company for get receipt. Is not enough only pay for telephones this paperwork is cost extra. Even President it seem fall in bad ways. His picture it was on wall in my room. I thinking to keep as picture do pretty up a wall so nice. But Mr Chowdhury shouting like anything. 'Ershad! You goonda!' Then he put on floor and stamp on it break glass. I keep frame maybe I can use later.

University is also close down. All students hold protest. They rallying for right to cheat. In my heart I support. Some who afford pay the professor for tutoring buy exam paper. To be fair all must have mean for equal cheating.

I waiting for your letter. I fill with joy of your husband new job. Already he speak of promotion. Many men this take long time years. I send such love it reach around whole world for you. God take care and give you more sons.

November 1988

My own sister what a beautiful room you live! At last I have see it after all many years asking. I putting photo on top of crate next to Raqib picture. When I have glass I think to put both inside frame. You never say about showcase corner cabinet wallpaper. It all ordinary like anything to you now. Every day I looking and think my own sister just there with showcase and corner cabinet and everything. Little bit worry comes only your arms too thin and face as well. But Zainab say it is fashion in London get thin.

Zainab is mother who live behind. She say 'This building it get pull down. Look how close to railway track.' She say Mr Chowdhury is skinning alive with rent and soon they move. I tell her about plastering man is on the way but she suck teeth make sound like whistle. Not so friendly woman. Only words come out are complaint. Husband works at District Court she thinks she the fudge and Jury now. I have friends at work. Zainab say as she please.

I tell you about garment factory. Only half hour walk from here and it fine place. Eight o'clock is the start time. All must come few minute before and eight o'clock exact they unlock gate. If you come late it is trouble because they lock the gates after to keep safe. It have three room around courtyard all new solid concrete. One place is for machine. I go there. Another for cutting and finishing. Men go there. Small room for Manager and Paperwork and such like.

My machine so new and beautiful I hardly daring to touch and put my finger mark on. When I sitting down and start it know me for beginner and prick the thumbs. It purr like a cat now but only for me. Someone else use it then it show a temper and catch up all the cloths break threads. Aleya say if trees have spirit why not machine. Shahnaz say Aleya is country bumpkin and no ancestor of her worshipping trees and rock and thing. She do not say in front of Aleya. So kind and gentle this Shahnaz.

I am machine woman and things are different now. When I was helper run around with thread and cloth I was just girl. Even in spite I think I am woman long before. We all talk together in lunch break. Four in my row stick like sister. Aleya Shahnaz Renu and me. I tell you about them my other sisters. Aleya have five children she comes from Noakhali. All our lives we think Noakhalis never wash they smelly like jackfruits but I give my vow as a true fact Aleya do not smell. Money she make she send her boys to school. Husband make problem for her but Aleya thinking of children only and not the husband. The husband say 'Why should you work? If you work it looks bad. People will say he cannot feed her.' But Aleya keep dropping wishes into the rice. Pinch of salt pinch of what she want and at the end he giving in. He buy burkha for her and every day walking with her to factory. Evening there he is wait at gate.

Shahnaz is only bit older one two year than me and she gone very far along in school. Most day she talking about match. Parents have pick seven eight boys but Shahnaz refuse all. And she disagree to dowry. 'Why should we give dowry? I am not a burden. I make money. I am the dowry.' We have grow close. She show me how she apply her cosmetics and she teach how to make eyebrows less ugly by pull out the hairs. She try some rouge on my cheek but wipe it off. My colouring is not good for rouge. It make look cheap.

Oldest of us is Renu a widow. She was marry at fifteen to old man who die within three month. She go back to father short time he throw out. All the life she has work but she the one who do not wish for this. Despite she have only two teeth she eat anything at all. Hard gums she say. 'I can break bricks on these gums.' Every lunch hour she is chew betel nut. It ban but Renu have no care about it. I asking if she marry again. 'Who will marry these bones?' She wave her arms but no bones showing is bracelets from wrists to elbow. 'My life! My life! Over at fifteen. Might as well be Hindu. His grave was big enough for two. Why I did not jump in?' She spit too as well never mind spitting is ban. She say there is no one to protect me. I must go here and there always alone. Anyone say anything they like because I am woman alone. I put here on earth to suffer. I am waiting and suffering. This is all.

I really feeling for her. In her life she had no love. This is great wrong.

Rut sometime she remind of Amma and then I must find reason to go away from her.

So shame your husband job is not good like he expecting. Skill man like him he find another quick no time at all.

January 1989

Sister so often I read your letters the paper wear out. How short these letter I have most by heart. Last one hardly is start and end come. You are cast down. I feel it. Thinking and thinking what to do. You say the friend has sewing job. Why you not also get this sewing? Wait for good time for asking husband. After he find job for his own self then he can be happy for wife to work also.

Working is like cure. Some find it curse I meaning Renu. But I do not. Sewing pass the day and I sit with friends. As actual fact it bring true friendship and true love. Love marriage maybe is better call something else than love. In real marriage it grow slow slow. Habit. Sit together. Give bit here take bit there. That is how it come at work.

Some people making trouble outside factory. They shout to us. 'Here come the garment girls. Choose the one you like.' A mullah organize whole entire thing. Day and night they playing religious message with loudspeaker. They say it sinful for men and women working together. But they the ones sinning take Gods name give insult to us and tell lie. Aleya husband getting anxious like anything. He want Aleya to wear burkha inside of factory. Shahnaz say why worry nobody want to look at that monkey face. She only tease and she so careful not to let Aleya hear.

Men and women keep separate here. No men doing machining. Men they cannot sit quiet so long. They have to fidget and talk and walk around smoking. They make pattern and cut cloth these are difficult job. Also they iron. That job too dangerous for woman we do not understand the electricity. So you see how it is and when we must speak it is as brother and sister. Abdul he is a pattern cutter always call me sister. Every day he have fresh shirt.

Shahnaz say I am wear wrong colour of sari. I too pale for wearing red or blue or pink. Pink is most worst. Brown or green suit better. It all depend on tone of skin because on Shahnaz pink is very pretty. I spend a little on cloth. Shahnaz say you know how people talk. If you wear bright colour they say you asking them to look.

Judges wife keeping it up. Yesterday she say 'Better be careful. Let the jute men find out a garment girl here and then it is trouble.' I ask her why what kind of trouble? 'Well they see a girl go around like that. And then they find out she a garment girl. Do you want that I take a stick and draw it here on the dirt for you?' So I tell her. Pure is in the mind. Keep yourself pure in mind and God will protect. I close my fingers and make fist. I keep my fingers shut like this you cannot open my hands can you? I say like this to her. Even you try it take such long time it not worth it for you. Same thing my modesty. I keep purdah in the mind no one can take it. Then trial is over and only the Judges wife looking little guilty.

Overtime at factory next week. Big order come from Japan. Renu is miss out the overtime. She have make mistakes this week she mess up some shirts putting collars on wrong way. Someone report for chewing betel as well. Aleya say it Shahnaz but she deny. Shahnaz say Renu end up breaking bricks. 'She better tough those gums up and get ready.' Shahnaz is such tease. How close we getting.

Breaking bricks you see this thing it no joke. Sometime I walk a way down by railway line to work. Few minutes is peaceful good house coconut trees wild rose magnolia. Then the brick breakers. All day squatting over red bricks with little stone hammer. So huge pile wait for this little hammers. Like you take teaspoon to empty lake. Most is woman and they look hungry. Children help. Swell belly children and still laughing hitting breaking laughing. Most days I walk on back roads it is longer and there are no flowers but I like better.

Send respects to your husband. I keep you in the prayers.

March 1989

God has hear the prayers! What is date of confinement? Now husband will put all effort for finding job and God willing continue study also.