DILRUBA Z. ARA: The particular morning as I am walking towards my father’s grave, I am thinking of death. As long as my father was alive, he was a shield between death and I. Now that he is gone, death seemed closer. I think of souls and shake the thought out—it is a profane concept in Islam. Babul, the family driver, is walking with me, with a tin of paint and a couple of brushes and scrubbers. Unlike Swedish graveyards, this graveyard in Banani (Bangladesh) is colourful with multi coloured stones and plants. There are shrubs, chirping birds, boughs heavy with flowers, visitors and grave-keepers. Some graves are sparsely covered with incipient grass, a soft shade of green against the dark soil, as is my father’s. As a celebrated author, my father was supposed to be buried in the Government Graveyard in Mirpur. But my mother wanted his final resting place closer home. I had felt depressed on my first visit to the grave. It not only looked undignified with its temporary walls of cane, but too small for my tall Abba. I could not do anything to expand its size but I could do something to improve its cane walls—and that is what I have come to do today. It took me a week to convince Babul to take me to a hardware shop; he told me that as a woman, I should not dream of painting a tomb (white and bright) in a public burial ground. When I wondered why, he refused to drive me anywhere. When I broached the subject again, he feigned illness. When he showed up later, he said he knew nothing of paints—he was a driver, not a mason after all. My Bengali instinct told me that even if I managed to get the stuff, I could not visit the graveyard alone. I threatened to take the car out. Babul figured that I meant what I said and gave in like an exasperated father. My father's grave is along the boundary wall on the opposite end of the cemetery. To reach it we walk along the main pathway dividing the area and then take the last causeway on the right to pick the way between two rows of graves. We reach a point where we stop to leave the causeway to walk between two graves on our left and climb up to the delta-shaped piece of land along one of the longer sides of Abba’s rectangular sleeping space, and it is just about large enough for us to be able to stand side by side and work. We commence at once. I take up a scrubber and instruct Babul in what he should do. Babul does his work, scowling. He does not speak a word. We have the morning sun on our backs. First, it feels gently warm but after a while I can feel the heat creeping into my flesh through my salwar-kameez. As time passes the heat becomes intense. I see a gathering of a few men standing on the walkway—all bearded and dressed in kameez, topi and trousers which hang above their ankles. Babul whispers, “The elderly one is the Imam! I am sure you have angered him.” I give Babul a murderous look. My brush moves fervently on the slim strips of cane and keeps on sputtering colour on the brick wall behind it. I do not care about the Imam, but I do care about the wall. I should have brought plastic sheets to protect it. When I express my concern, Babul simply states that I am not in Sweden anymore. Behind me the Imam walks back-and-forth with his disciples. I feel their collective scowls and hear their whispers. Done with one frame, I clean the wall and start on another. When I am through, I discover to my dismay that the first one has sucked in much of its new colour. The canes are full of sap. Babul says that we should leave the trellises after giving each a single coat and come back later. For the first time, I agree. We pick our way in between the graves and reach the causeway; I climb on it. The Imam separates himself from his followers and faces me. I arrange the edge of my dupatta correctly on my head as I meet his face. He reminds me of my childhood, of Quran lessons in Ajimpura. His body is scrawny, he has a hunch and his face has the confidence that I have seen in Imams everywhere. I know he wants an explanation, but he does not know what to ask. I do not smile. Neither does he. I forget that I am not in Sweden. He remembers that it is his domain. We both keep our heads high. The sun is now in my eyes, I can not keep them from flickering no matter how severely I command them to stay still. The situation begins to infuriate and embarrass me: shall I declare peace by lowering my eyes? I know for certain that his mind is intellectually limited and his behaviour towards me underlies his self-righteous. I wonder what does he see in me? A rebel or an immodest woman? After a minute’s inner dispute, I to walk away without showing any sign of capitulation. I mutter, “It is my father’s grave and none can stop me from painting it.” Babul’s words penetrate my soliloquy: “That is the oldest daughter. She lives abroad.” I walk quickly and do not look at the rows of graves or read the epitaphs or admire their colours. I do not think of life, death or soul. When I climb into the car I keep my silence. I see in the mirror that the Imam is standing in the middle of the gateway to the graveyard, his face set in stone, his eyes following the car. Next morning, when Babul shows up, I ask him to take out the car immediately. I want to have the fences done before the sun gets too hot. Of course I recall the episode from yesterday and feel discouraged. I will finish what I have started. If the Imam is not brave enough to voice his displeasure what can his silence do to me? I steel myself and change into my white salwar and full-sleeved kameez, and wrap my head with the dupatta. As I slip my feet into my sandals, my mother says, “You should consider yourself lucky that we live in this area.” We reach the graveyard early; before the beggars and flowervendors. There are only a couple of pie dogs sitting leisurely. As I enter the gate and walk past the small mosque, I see the Imam. He sees me, too, and gets to his feet neglecting the crowd sitting around him. He follows Babul and me all the way to the dual graves. I resume working as the Imam begins to walk back and forth on the causeway. I wonder what might be passing through his mind. I wished the Imam behaved as properly as a priest in a graveyard in the west. Then, I could be proud of him. I wanted to be proud of him because he was the Imam at my father’s eternal resting place and he was a full-blooded Bangladeshi. A priest in the west would never neglect his office to pester a daughter. The Imam is now standing still, just opposite me across the twin graves. The blazing sun shines on him, sweat gleaming on his face. Babul wonders if he can offer him a cup of water. I nod to take up the brush again; Babul walks between the graves with a paper cup. The scene repeats itself for a few days. Occasionally, the Imam watches me alone, sometimes with people. But they no longer scowl. Instead they seem to be waiting for the cool water that Babul serves with a broad smile. The fourth day, determined to finish off the work, I go to the graveyard and work doggedly. The cool morning turns warm and then hot as my clothes get drenched. I keep on working, ignoring the escalating heat. I give in only when I realise that I have a splitting headache. I take stock: one more coat and then I will be satisfied. When I reach the aisle, I face the Imam again. His face seems softer. He stands aside. By the evening I come down with a fever. A couple of days later when I find myself somewhat on the mend, I am ready to finish off my work. As the car approaches the graveyard, I find the Imam by the gate. Arms stretched out, he is holding the bars of the huge gate, his white-clad body pressed flat against the grids, his bearded face sticking out from in-between two black bars. He sends me back to Sweden instantly; he reminds of the scarecrows in the wheat fields. This image irritates me. He leaves the bars, pushes the gate and stands aside. It occurs to me that he has been waiting for my return. I give him a nod of recognition and he puts his right palm on his chest and nods. Well-bred men have greeted me in a similar manner. I feel shaken. As I begin walking, I notice that he is not following me but keeping pace. Having given the fences the final coat of colour, Babul and I adjust them around Abba’s grave. The grave now looks better with its verdant grass and white fence. Abba would have been pleased, he loved beauty. We pray in silence for his soul. When we are done, we pick our way back. The Imam, who has been standing, moves. Before we understand he walks past us to Abba’s grave. Babul and I now stand in the aisle looking at him in wonder. He roots himself by the head of the grave and takes out a miniature book. I mistake it for a copy of the Holy Quran, but when he starts reading it aloud, I am shaken. It is a book of poems by the renowned poet Kazi Nazrul Islam. The Imam reads a couplet in honour of my father—my writer father. His voice is warm and deep, drowning all sounds. I listen to him, spellbound. I wait for him. He comes but he does not talk. We walk side-by-side, first on the causeway and then on the broad bricked path that bisects the graveyard. When I am about to climb into the car, I plead, “Please forgive me if I have offended you!” He shakes his head and speaks a line from Kazi Nazrul Islam: “There is a father sleeping in the mind of every child.”