When she smiled she looked deeply amused, although her mouth turned up only slightly to indicate pity rather than laughter.
She had a long nose and narrow eyes that always looked at you from an angle, never straight on, so that she seemed perpetually to be evaluating if not mocking you. Islam made a noise signaling that it was, indeed, a shame. She took a fresh handkerchief and blew her nose.
After a decent interval she said, Did you hear about Jorina? That depends, said Razia, looking down her nose at her tea, on what particular thing you mean.
You can hardly keep it a secret when you begin going out to work. Nazneen saw that Razia looked up sharply. Razia did not know the things that Mrs. Islam knew. Islam knew everything about everybody. She had been in London for nearly thirty years, and if you were a Bangladeshi here, what could you keep secret from her? Islam was the first person who called on Nazneen, in those first few days when her head was still spinning and the days were all dreams and real life came to her only at night, when she slept.
Islam was deemed by Chanu to be respectable. Not many people were respectable enough to call or be called upon. You see, said Chanu when he explained this for the first time, most of our people here are Sylhetis. They all stick together because they come from the same district.
They know each other from the villages, and they come to Tower Hamlets and they think they are back in the village. Most of them have jumped ship.
They have menial jobs on the ship, doing donkey work, or they stow away like little rats in the hold. He cleared his throat and spoke to the back of the room so that Nazneen turned her head to see who it was he was addressing. And when they jump ship and scuttle over here, then in a sense they are home again. And you see, to a white person, we are all the same: dirty little monkeys all in the same monkey clan. But these people are peasants. Without ambition. He sat back and stroked his belly.
If a man has only ever driven a rickshaw and never in his life held a book in his hand, then what can you expect from him? Nazneen wondered about Mrs. And still she was respectable. Going out to work? Razia said to Mrs. Nazneen admired the way the words left her mouth, like bullets. It was too late now to ask about the woman who fell from the sixteenth floor. The husband is working, but still she cannot fill her stomach. In Bangladesh one salary can feed twelve, but Jorina cannot fill her stomach.
Mixing with all sorts: Turkish, English, Jewish. All sorts. I am not old-fashioned, said Mrs. I keep purdah in my mind, which is the most important thing. Plus I have cardigans and anoraks and a scarf for my head.
But if you mix with all these people, even if they are good people, you have to give up your culture to accept theirs. They talked on and Nazneen made more tea and answered some queries about herself and about her husband, and wondered all the while about supper and the impossibility of mentioning anything to her guests, who must be made welcome.
Azad knows Mr. Dalloway, Chanu had explained to her. He has influence. If he puts in a word for me, the promotion will be automatic. Make sure you fry the spices properly, and cut the meat into big pieces. She made inquiries about Mrs. Islam made some noises to indicate that indeed the hip was troubling her a great deal but it was nothing she could mention, being in fact a stoic. And then, just when her anxiety about supper was beginning to make her chest hurt, her guests stood up to leave and Nazneen rushed to open the door, feeling rude as she stood by it, waiting for them to go.
Azad was a small, precise man who, contrary to the Bengali custom, spoke at a level only one quarter of a decibel above a whisper. Anyone who wished to hear what he was saying was obliged to lean in towards him, so that all evening Chanu gave the appearance of hanging on his every word. Come, said Dr. Azad, when Nazneen was hovering behind the table, ready to serve.
Come and sit down with us. This week I saw two of our young men in a very sorry state, said the doctor. Two in one week! But now our children are copying what they see here, going to the pub, to nightclubs. Or drinking at home in their bedrooms, where their parents think they are perfectly safe. The problem is our community is not properly educated about these things. Azad drank a glass of water down in one long draft and poured himself another.
I always drink two glasses before starting the meal. He drank the second glass. Now I will not overeat. Water is good for cleansing the system, but food is also essential. He scooped up lamb and rice with his fingers and chewed. He put too much in his mouth at once, and he made sloppy noises as he ate. When he could speak again, he said, I agree with you.
Our community is not educated about this, and much else besides. We will go back before they get spoiled.
This is another disease that afflicts us, said the doctor. I call it Going Home Syndrome. Do you know what that means? He addressed himself to Nazneen. It is natural, said Chanu.
These people are basically peasants and they miss the land. The pull of the land is stronger even than the pull of blood. Their bodies are here but their hearts are back there. And anyway, look how they live: just re-creating the villages here. But they will never save enough to go back.
Azad helped himself to vegetables. His shirt was spotless white, and his collar and tie so high under his chin that he seemed to be missing a neck. Azad continued, Every year they think, just one more year.
We would not need very much, said Nazneen. Both men looked at her. She spoke to her plate. I mean, we could live very cheaply. The back of her neck burned. Chanu filled the silence with his laugh. My wife is just settling in here. He coughed and shuffled in his chair. The thing is, with the promotion coming up, things are beginning to go well for me now. If I just get the promotion confirmed then many things are possible.
I used to think all the time of going back, said Dr. He spoke so quietly that Nazneen was forced to look directly at him, because to catch all the words she had to follow his lips. But something would always happen. A flood, a tornado that just missed the building, a power cut, some mind-numbing piece of petty bureaucracy, bribes to be paid out to get anything done.
Chanu cleared his throat. Other people have applied. But after my years of service. Do you know, in six years I have not been late on one single day! And only three sick days, even with the ulcer. Some of my colleagues are very unhealthy, always going off sick with this or that. Even so, I feel he ought to be aware of it. Within months I will be a fully fledged academic, with two degrees.
One from a British university. Bachelor of Arts degree. With honors. His secretary made an appointment for him to see you about his shoulder sprain. Very active man. Red hair. Wears contact lenses—perhaps you test his eyes as well. What I should have told you straightaway—he has a harelip. That should put you on to him. The guest remained quiet. Nazneen heard Chanu suppress a belch. She wanted to go to him and stroke his forehead. She wanted to get up from the table and walk out of the door and never see him again.
I am forty years old, said Chanu. He spoke quietly, like the doctor, but with none of his assurance. I have been in this country for sixteen years. Nearly half my life. He gave a dry-throated gargle.
When I came I was a young man. I had ambitions. Big dreams. When I got off the aeroplane, I had my degree certificate in my suitcase and a few pounds in my pocket. I thought there would be a red carpet laid out for me. I was going to join the civil service and become Private Secretary to the Prime Minister.
As he told his story, his voice grew. It filled the room. That was my plan. And then I found things were a bit different. What can you do? He rolled a ball of rice and meat in his fingers and teased it around his plate. I did this and that. Whatever I could. So much hard work, so little reward.
More or less it is true to say I have been chasing wild buffaloes and eating my own rice. You know that saying? All the begging letters from home I burned. And I made two promises to myself. I will be a success, come what may. Number two, I will go back home. When I am a success.
And I will honor these promises. Chanu, who had grown taller and taller in his chair, sank back down. The begging letters still come, said Chanu. From old servants, from the children of servants. Even from my own family, although they are not in need.
All they can think of is money. They think there is gold lying about in the streets here and I am just hoarding it all in my palace. But I did not come here for money. Was I starving in Dhaka? I was not. Do they inquire about my diplomas? He gestured to the wall, where various framed certificates were displayed. They do not. What is more. He cleared his throat, although it was already clear. Open navigation menu. Close suggestions Search Search. User Settings.
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Start your free 30 days Read preview. Publisher: Scribner. Released: Sep 29, ISBN: Format: Book. A Bangladeshi immigrant in London is torn between the kind, tedious older husband with whom she has an arranged marriage and children and the fiery political activist she lusts after.
Her new world is full of mysteries. How can she cross the road without being hit by a car an operation akin to dodging raindrops in the monsoon? What is the secret of her bullying neighbor Mrs. What is a Hell's Angel?
As a good Muslim girl, Nazneen struggles to not question why things happen. She submits, as she must, to Fate and devotes herself to her husband and daughters. Yet to her amazement, she begins an affair with a handsome young radical, and her erotic awakening throws her old certainties into chaos. Cultural Heritage. About the author. Read more. Related Books. Related categories Skip carousel. I thought it was indigestion, said Rupban, also beginning to cry. A girl, said Rupban.
I know. Never mind, said Hamid. And he went away again. It was only dinner. One dinner. One guest. She is an unspoilt girl. From the village. We see each other before long time pass and we as little girls again.
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It explores how authors returned to epistolary conventions to create dialogue across national, linguistic and cultural borders and repositions a range of contemporary and postcolonial authors never considered together before, including Monica Ali, John Berger, Amitav Ghosh, Michael Ondaatje and Alice Walker. Through a series of situated readings, the book shows how the return to epistolarity is underpinned by ideals relating to dialogue and human connection.
Several of the works use letters to present non-anglophone material to the anglophone reader. Others use letters to challenge policed borders: the prison, occupied territory, the nation state.
Elsewhere, letters are used to connect correspondents in different cultural and linguistic contexts. Common to all of the works considered in this book is the appeal that they make to us, as readers, and the responsibility they place on us to respond to this address.
This study seeks to re-think the ways in which we read world literature and shows how the literary letter, in old and new forms, speaks powerfully again in this period.
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