1. en-ashram-N/G
2. 05-11-2024
4. Tweet

I did not know of him. My wife Sara said she had spoken to him on the phone and he would be visiting us this weekend.

“Your cousin – you don’t remember?” Sara said.

“My cousin?” 

“Yes,” she replied tersely. Then our small living room returned to the silence of the evening.

I was not prepared to receive a visitor. Sara had been grieving for three months since her brother’s death. Her only brother, two years younger than her, died in a car accident en route from Toronto to Ottawa to visit us. Sara blamed herself for the death and withdrew from everything.

I had intended to call my cousin to postpone the visit. When the doorbell rang, I thought it was a salesperson. Sara stood behind me and asked, “Who is it?” The visitor looked away from me to face Sara and said: “I’m Yaman. Do you recognize me?” Instantly, I recalled the visit and cursed myself for not calling Yaman to postpone it.

Sara replied with a gentle smile. “Yes, I do. Come in.” She pushed me aside and led Yaman into the living room. Yaman’s visit did not seem to bother her. Her cheerful voice returned. It was the same warmth she had always shown when her brother used to visit us. I wondered if Yaman resembled her late brother.

“You’ve grown so big. When I last saw you in Bangladesh two years ago, you seemed just like a little boy.”

Yaman laughed, and so did Sara. Our small living room was bathed in the warmth of the late spring sun. The sun, filtered through the ash tree in the backyard, lit up Sara’s face. She looked happy. I turned my eyes to Yaman. He had a very handsome and innocent face. With his gracious smile, he could easily dominate his opponents. Had I seen him two years ago? Two years, that’s what Sara just said, that was when went to Bangladesh after our marriage. As an insurance broker, I was good at remembering faces and names. As for Yaman, I remembered neither.

We sat on the patio for supper. Yaman cleaned up the patio and helped Sara with cooking. I was impressed by how quickly they formed a strong bond. Now that I had time to settle back, I recalled my family relationships in distant Bangladesh. My mother died when I was four years old and my father married a second time. Since then, I had barely any contacts with my mother’s family. I knew Yaman’s father was a prosperous cardiac surgeon. I might have seen Yaman when he was little but that was so long ago!

I did not bring up our past. I only asked Yaman what he had been doing in Toronto.

Sara jumped in to reply. “Oh, he is doing MBA at Rotman – smart boy … !” She said “boy” as if she was really talking about a little boy. Yaman cut her off. “Right! Smart, because my father has money to spend on me.”

I darted a furtive look at him to see if he was bragging. He seemed unmindful of what he had just said. He took a long sip of his tea and said this patio was the best place he had spent his evenings since arriving in Toronto last year.

Looking up at the clear sky, he said, “You can glimpse as many stars here as the sky can hold.” In an expansive mood, he jumped from topic to topic, gleefully disputing Sara on everything. That is exactly what Sara’s brother used to do.

In a couple of days, Yaman became part of us. He occupied the small room in the basement that had been the den of Sara’s brother. When I was at work, he and Sara explored Asian grocery stores and tried out new cooking recipes, just like Sara and her brother used to do.

We were happy to forget that Yaman came just for the weekend. I felt I should learn more about his family, so I could really treat him as a cousin. I emailed a friend in Bangladesh who was related to Yaman. But what I learned from that friend came as an unexpected blow instead of strengthening my closeness to Yaman.

I was shocked to learn that Yaman was a fugitive accused of murder in Bangladesh. My friend wrote based on what he had heard; he had not had much contact with Yaman’s family. His email contained several inconsistencies. At one point, he mentioned that the murder had taken place a year ago, while in another, he said Yaman had been sent to Australia two years ago. He also said the charges were a sham devised to blackmail Yaman’s affluent father. I called this friend several times, but could not get hold of him.

I cautioned myself against overreacting. Yaman was a visitor and would be leaving soon. The information in the email was inconsistent and could be wrong. Even if it was correct, how can I bring it up with him? His kindness pulled Sara out of sadness, and the news could devastate her again. I must exercise caution in what follows.

But when I got home, I lost my cool. Yaman bombarded me with questions: “Shall I make you tea? How was your day? You look grumpy. Why…?”

“I’m tired. I’ll take a shower.” I left the living room without looking at him.

On the patio, the sun of late May was still bright. I sought darkness to escape my despair. Every word Yaman spoke seemed deceptive today. I said to myself: Pull yourself together! You are an insurance broker – uncovering truth from deception is your daily job!

    Yaman and Sara were complaining about a smelly Bangladeshi grocery store that they had visited earlier. The next minute, they shifted to discussing Bangladeshi immigrants in Ottawa. Yaman then shared anecdotes from his visit to Jakarta where his father had once worked at a hospital. Instantly, Australia sprang to my mind – that was where Yaman had sought refuge. That was what my friend had told me. I broke in abruptly: “Did you travel to Australia?” He squinted at me, “Why Australia? It’s a country of penal colonies. Am I a convict?” He laughed at his joke, forcing me to awkwardly look away from him to Sara, whose placid face was glowing in the twilight. I stammered: “No, just… it’s… uh… it’s not far from Jakarta!

Yaman became taciturn after that. So, my suspicions about his trip to Australia were correct? His sharp reaction made me wonder if he was trying to hide it. Maybe I was reading too much into it. I must not blow it up. But what if that meant shielding a killer?

That question kept me up the whole night. Over breakfast the next morning, I asked Sara when Yaman would go back to Toronto.

“Your cousin – you ask him,” Sara gave a terse reply. “Something wrong?” she asked.

I could have said yes. I could have told her what I heard. Instead, in a tired voice, I said, “I didn’t sleep well.”

Sara stood up to take the plates to the sink. “I know,” she said. “You look drained. Go and get some sleep. It’s Saturday!

When I woke up around noon time, the house was quiet. Sara and Yaman must have gone out. I went down to the basement and entered the room Yaman was occupying. On the desk, I saw Yaman’s cell phone. I picked it up, but my conscience immediately warned me against spying. I hesitated, and then pressed the power button. Unfortunately, it did not turn on – the battery was dead.

A small duffle bag lay in the corner. My temptation to search through it overcame my conscience once again. I unzipped it and found nothing suspicious. I sat down on the bed, thinking about Sara’s brother who used to sleep there, now occupied by a killer.

“Have you found proof?” I thought someone yelled right in my ears. I jumped to my feet only to realize it was just the doorbell. Sara and Yaman must have returned. I rushed to open the door.

The next week started badly. On Monday, I lost three potential clients. On Tuesday, I learned I had not passed a certification exam. I was growing increasingly cranky and becoming unreasonably demanding with clients.

All this time, Yaman lingered on my mind. I concealed his true identity not only from Sara but also from the authorities. My conscience constantly nagged me: He is a fugitive… a murderer!

     I read my friend’s email several times, trying to convince myself that it was unsubstantial. Maybe Sara was right that she had seen Yaman in Bangladesh two years ago. Most likely, my friend had mistaken Yaman for someone else. Even if the killing happened, it was in a country where violence was common.

Maybe! But would it offer me any defence for sheltering a murderer in my house?

At night, I woke up from a disturbing dream. A little boy, resembling Yaman, was struggling to take off his shirt. But it kept shrinking, now tangled on his head. As he struggled, my own breath faltered. I sat up, gasping.

Sara was slepping soundly. I gazed out the window at the last quarter moon, shining through the ash tree in the backyard. My thoughts raced from the dream’s little boy to his shrinking shirt to Yaman. I am harbouring a killer. What should I do? A deep voice resonated: “How would you handle it if Yaman were your own brother?”

“I don’t know?” I murmured.

“What?” I thought I heard Sara speak but she was still asleep.

The next afternoon I came home with a plan to announce a trip for Sara and me that weekend. It would be an indirect way of telling Yaman to leave. I was walking towards the patio, when Sara said, “We’ll eat inside. Yaman is gone.”

I was paralyzed with fear. In a flash, I imagined the police had invaded the house to arrest Yaman.

“Where…?” The word choked me.

Sara calmly explained that Yaman had received a phone call from Toronto about his summer course. The course would start tomorrow so he had to leave today.

“Yaman said next year he would take us to Bangladesh,” Sara said with a smile. I sheepishly smiled back. Perhaps he was not what I thought he was.

The house felt desolately empty to me. After nearly two weeks, we ate dinner inside again.

Rashed Nabi
Ottawa

1. en-ashram-N/G
2. 05-11-2024
4. Tweet