Free A Golden Age by Tahmima Anam

Sohail asked.
‘I still have yours,’ Silvi replied, opening a drawer next to the sofa; ‘you let me borrow, it, remember, because I wanted to take a photo of Romeo and Juliet?’ She handed him his most prized possession, a Yashica Electro 35G Rehana had bought him for his eighteenth birthday.
‘Of course,’ Sohail said, taking the Yashica out of its case and hiding his face behind the lens. What did he see, Rehana won- dered. Did he see regret on her lips, in the way her hands were arranged, in the brightness of her cheeks, in the ragged quick- ness of her breath? And what about Silvi? Would she miss the long silences between them, the love notes delivered through slats in the shutters?
Sohail pointed the camera at the couple on the sofa. ‘Smile!’ And there was a snap.
Just as Rehana was about to open the Holy Book the lights went out. She had to recite the marriage verses from memory: He created for you mates from among yourselves, that you may dwell in tranquillity with them, and He has put love and mercy between your hearts.
Silvi and Sabeer exchanged rings. Then Mrs Chowdhury said, ‘Let’s have a poem, Sohail!’
     
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‘No, khala-moni, really, I couldn’t.’ ‘Come on, not even for an old friend?’
‘Maybe music would be a better idea,’ Rehana said, trying to rescue her son. ‘Why don’t you ask Maya to sing a ghazal?’
But Maya kept her back to them and pretended not to hear. Under the veil, Silvi’s shoulders shook violently.
‘Sweetheart, don’t be afraid,’ Mrs Sengupta soothed. Silvi didn’t look any more or less unhappy than any other bride.
‘We are all family now. We must have a poem,’ Mrs Chowdhury insisted.
Sohail faced the couple, closed his eyes and recited:
When you command me to sing it seems my heart will break with pride.
I look to your face and feel the wet salt of my tears.
My adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.
It is only in this, my voice, that I am witness to you.
Drunk with the joy, sublime, of singing, I forget myself and call you friend who are my lord.
You have made me endless; such is your pleasure.
And that was it. They lingered in Mrs Chowdhury’s drawing room, listening to the rat-tat-tat of the machine-guns. The night passed like a dream, no movement, no words passing between them.
     
With dawn the bullets quietened. The sun was making a slow rise in the east, preceded by blurred sky-stripes of pink and orange. Dust was settling on trees and rooftops. They decided to go home. Mrs Chowdhury was asleep on her chair, her hand under her chin. They slid open the front door and found Juliet pacing around a prone Romeo. Her head was bent; her ears brushed his face as she circled him. She grunted quietly, her nostrils moist and flared. Romeo didn’t stir. Sohail put his hand on the dog’s belly. ‘He’s dead,’ he said; ‘he must have had a heart-attack.’
At home, Rehana told the children they should try to get some sleep, but nobody shifted from the drawing room. In the afternoon
     
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a truck stopped in the front of the bungalow, its engine grinding. On the silent street, every sound was exaggerated. A megaphone squealed to life.
‘Bengalis, take down your flags. Take down your flags. Take down your flags. Flag-bearing is illegal. You will be arrested. Take down your flags.’ The voice was thin and nasal. And then, as though an afterthought, it added, ‘Take down your flags, you bastard traitors.’
‘Maya – the flag!’
Maya ran to the roof in her bare feet.
A few minutes later she was lying on the floor with the flag wrapped around her shoulders. She raised her finger to the ceiling and counted mosquitoes. They could hear Juliet barking chaotically from Mrs Chowdhury’s driveway.
They sat. They waited for something to happen. Sohail paced the veranda, the garden, the roof. Maya fell asleep in the flag. Rehana checked the fridge and tried to work out how long the food would last. She counted the chickens. She