Gopali's Will

The ship to Dhaka was set to sail along the roaring Padma River. The ilish fish I sold at the bazaar yesterday was just enough to pay for the fare. Accompanied by officials, I held on to the remaining takas in my bag, bundled inside my salwar kameez, along with the will. I had nothing else. 

I was leaving my home because of a sister I would never know. 

 “I will look after Firoja,” promised Janisha Ghazi Ratna, a lawyer and a close family friend to my Amu and Abu. They refused to come with me.

The raging waters swirled underneath, darkened by the rain clouds. A low rumble whispered, like the whistling of a boiling pot. I wrapped my urna tighter around my neck as the winds threatened to expose my hair. 

Anger gave me strength to board this three-decker ship. This rising sea ingurgitated our crops. 

Slowly, and not so steadily because the ship was rocking, I saw the island of Hatia fading into the distance. Only once in my life I have stepped beyond the coast, when my Abu took me fishing. I put one foot inside the boat and feared it tipping over. So, I decided not to partake on that venture. 

That was the farthest I have gone from home until now. 

Subdued tears burned my eyes. I was following in my sister’s footsteps, just as my parents feared. Albeit, they did not shout or threaten to cut off contact with me. I gave my salams. They gave their blessings. I left for them. I’m sure my sister did too… at first. 

“I had a bon?” My hands trembled when I first received her will. “Why haven’t you told me I had a sister?” 

My Abu did not meet my gaze as his eyes shot red and tears rimmed at the edge, fighting to leak down. My Amu had been weeping all day in the room since the news; her wails echoed behind the wooden doors. 

“Gopali left us when you were a baby,” bitterness creeped into my Abu’s voice like weeds. “She refused to marry and ran off to Dhaka for work. Allah knows what else she’s doing out there. No visit. No contact.” 

She didn’t forget about me. 

That night, I performed Istikhara to guide my decision. My heart was torn, but it pulled faintly towards Dhaka. 

The ship lurching against the violent waves snapped me out of my reverie. My stomach lurched with it. Although I recited the Ayatal Kursi before boarding, my mind still whirled with unease. It was not uncommon for boats and ships to sink below the water. 

“This is the house your sister owned,” Janisha pointed to the small square plot on the map inside our own cabin. “It’s in Gulshan.”

“Gulshan?” I gasped. Gulshan was an opulent part of Dhaka.

 I inherited her house in Gulshan? I wasn’t sure if it was the jhal muri, the swaying ship, or the shock of everything that made my head spin. 

“Consider yourself lucky that I took over this case,” said Janisha. “Don’t utter a breath about your inheritance out in public. There are those who would kill to collect it for themselves.” She revealed a gun inside her blazer. I gulped. 

Janisha turned on the fan despite the A.C. running. My house in Hatia did not have A.C. The repulsive smell almost made me gag. 

“What is this stone chair with a hole in it?” I asked after peaking at the bathroom.

“That’s the toilet,” said Janisha. “It’s one of those American toilets, much more comfortable than the ancient ones we used to have in villages!”

“This is how Americans use the bathroom?” I asked.

“Get used to it,” said Janisha, “because your new home is very modern and Americanized!” 

I didn’t believe I could ever get used to it. I tried to sit on it but that felt unnatural. I opted to squat on top of the seat. 

Sixteen hours. After sixteen hours of torture, we finally made it to Dhaka. We crammed together in a green CNG auto rickshaw. The doors were like caged fences. I failed to understand how we got so many tourists in Hatia. Why did people love traveling in planes, buses, cars, and crowded ships like animals carted to the slaughterhouse? It was atrocious. 

The air smelled different. Janisha told me to cover my nose with my urna during the ride. Silhouettes of high-rise buildings blurred behind the white haze. There was no green in sight, unlike the lush Hatia landscape. 

“Do they usually drive this fast in the city?” I yelled over the blasting winds and continuous honks, gripping the side with one hand so tight that my fingers ached. 

The overcrowded streets teemed with cars, buses, rickshaws, and pedestrians. The way all these moving pieces swerved around each other, like interlacing threads through silk fabric, mystified me. 

“That man just crossed the street without even looking up from his phone!” I screamed. 

Honk!

“That’s just how it is here,” said Janisha. 

Honk! 

“Why do they keep honking all the time?” I asked.

Honk!

“Cars are trying to overtake each other,” Janisha replied. “They do this all the time. It’s to warn the person ahead that they are passing.” 

Honk!

Dirt blasted up from the ground. The brown dust rose like a snake from a basket by the whistling of the wind’s flute. I couldn’t tell where the fumes from the sky ended and the dust clouds began. I shut my burning eyes and coughed into my urna. The wistful thoughts of Hatia flashed inside my mind. Away from a multitude of luxury cars, buses, and factories, the air remained unpolluted. Even destitute farmers on that island breathed fresh air. 

Did my sister breathe this air for all these years?

The CNG driver barreled through traffic. He did not heed other cars. 

“Ey!” he yelled at another driver as he passed his car. 

“What’s going on?” I clutched the handle. 

“Drive carefully, sir,” said Janisha. “We have a young girl who’s new to the city. We don’t want to scare her.” 

“Ma’am,” said the CNG driver, “I was just trying to pass.”

“We’re in no rush, so drive carefully,” she sternly repeated. 

“No problem, ma’am.”

The driver decelerated, but not for long. 

Rather than admiring the city, I scrutinized the roads. The miniature CNG vehicles could wedge between other cars, but that endeavour was not effortless. My heart quickened and my legs slightly quavered. One of the most common ways to die in Dhaka were car accidents. Gopali was now a part of that statistic. 

Our driver headed straight for the narrow passage between two buses. 

“You will not make it!” Janisha bellowed. The driver swerved around, passed in front of the bus, and halted.

He stuck his head out and began yelling at the bus driver. Incoherent shouting exchanged between the two. 

“Just go!” Janisha and I bellowed. 

“There are two females inside! Don’t start this nonsense!” Janisha exclaimed.

The colossal bus pushed against the back of our compact CNG. Are we going to get squished to death?

“I want to get off—” I panicked, trying to open the door. “The lock won’t budge! How do I open it?” I feared the bus would splat us like cockroaches. 

Dust clouds obscured our vision all around from the rolling wheels of the bus as it kept pushing against us, aggravating my hacking cough. 

By some miracle, common sense knocked and was cordially invited inside the driver’s head. He let go of his egotistic brawl and sped away. 

Gulshan was gilded in private clubs, companies of many nations, and restaurants of enormous variety, such as Thai, Chinese, and American. 

“Here,” Janisha threw the taka at the driver and muttered, “shaytani…” 

We stopped at a place called Bella Italia. 

“Is this roti or paratha?” I picked up my dish and probed. 

Janisha guffawed. “It’s called a pizza! This is a very popular bideshi dish. Trust me Firoja, you’ll love it.” She grinned and chomped on her pizza. 

The insipid taste reminded me of the year that the erosion spoiled my Amu and Abu’s vegetations. I ached for my Amu’s dal bhat and ilish maach. 

Did Gopali ache for Amu’s food, too? 

“Your house isn’t too far from here, so we will take a regular rickshaw,” said Janisha. 

I loved rickshaw rides in Hatia. They were much more sluggish compared to the crazed auto rickshaws. Unfortunately, I couldn’t enjoy a typically relaxing rickshaw ride from being in constant fear of other crazed vehicles zipping past us. While other girls on rickshaws took pictures on their phones, I held firm to the side. 

Every breath I inhaled, I exhaled a couple of coughs. I used to love being outdoors but now I couldn’t stand it. 

The house I inherited was like a palace compared to the house I lived in Hatia. The inside had a moving room to go up to the second and third floors. 

“So if I do not want to use the stairs, I can use this box?” I asked.

“That’s right. You can use the lift,” laughed Janisha. “Your sister Gopali has a maid who comes in everyday to clean, cook, and take care of your basic needs. She agreed to be in your service.” 

The call to Maghrib resounded through the city. My dirty namaz carpet looked odd against the pristine white floors. I tried to concentrate on my namaz, but my mind drifted to the new life here. Janisha assured me she would enroll me into a reputable university. She laid out every plan for me to live comfortably in the city. Guilt pulled my weight like treacherous waves sinking a hopeful ship. I saw my life as Gopali’s. Successful. Rich. Once she left, I bet she didn’t worry about surviving and depending on another man. That freedom felt exhilarating.  

Although, that’s not the path I wanted to take.

“I don’t want to live here anymore. I want to sell this house to someone else and bring the taka back to Hatia… for my family,” I said.

“Firoja,” said Janisha, “you will give all of this up for taka that won’t last longer than this house and your career?” 

“I don’t want to abandon my family. They could use the money and I want to do this for them. They will never leave Hatia and they deserve a better life there.”

Before leaving Dhaka, I stopped by at the Shaheed Minar, a monument to honor those killed during the Bangladeshi Language Movement. My grandmother left her family to fight the war alongside the other freedom fighters. I could never be angry at my elder sister for leaving the family to follow what she believed in. She left me with an inheritance beyond property and money. 

I left on the ship back to Hatia on the roaring Padma River, bringing home not just fortune, but the courage to be as successful as Gopali on my own terms.