The Old Flame

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It was a weekend in mid-July, the yearly book fair of Bangladeshi publishers that took place in the Royal Canadian Legion Hall at the end of Dawes Road every year for two days had started. It was just a short walk from the intersection of Danforth Avenue and Victoria Park Ave in Scarborough, Toronto, where a lot of the Bangladeshi stores were located. Robin lived not too far from the intersection, a hub of Bangladeshi Canadians. He had planned to walk down to the fair – couldn’t possibly take more than twenty minutes, spend an hour or so checking out the books – most in Bangla with a small percentage in English, printed in Bangladesh, and mailed to Canada; chat a little with friends if he saw any; perhaps a little literary discussion with any of the authors who usually visited the fair; and then on his way back home would stop by at one of the Bangladeshi grocery stores to get some summer vegetables, a specialty that usually became available only during summertime and not available in the regular grocery stores.  His wife, Lota, wasn’t particularly crazy about book fairs. Not an avid reader, she did like to read now and then if she determined a book to be of her taste. However, she had a strong reluctance to get herself made and walk around in a book fair, pretending to look at the books when the primary goal was simply to let everybody think how cultured you were. That was her opinion of most other women who would look gorgeous in their fantastic colorful sarees or Salwar–Kameez and flock to the book fair. Robin had a different opinion but he wasn’t about to risk anything by contradicting her about something that wasn’t even about men. Nevertheless, he couldn’t just plan a visit without first at least inviting her to come with him. Lota was very sensitive and emotional and didn’t deal very well with anything from him that could even remotely be evaluated as being negligent to her. After many years of being successfully married to her, he jokingly thought of himself as a Ph.D. in Lota. He knew everything about Lota, what made her happy and what pissed her off, what annoyed her, and what invigorated her, all such important things. He meticulously followed the ‘Book of Lota’ that he imagined to have written as part of his research thesis incorporating all his knowledge of Lota acquired over the years.      In the late afternoon, before he started for the book fair, he made sure to make a decent effort to press Lota to come with him. She had refused, as expected. Robin still insisted and at one point even declared he wasn’t about to go to a book fair without her. This move always proved to be quite successful. Lota smiled indulgently. “Don’t bug me. Get out of here. I have things to do.” His teenage son was watching something worthless on his cell phone. He tried to pull him to come with him. This he did with the good intention to get the kid off of his electronic gazette. No success there. At sixteen he acted as if he was the boss of the bosses. The twelve-year-old daughter was multitasking, drawing on paper with colored pencils while watching YouTube shows. When he asked her to come with him, she readily agreed but threw in a few demands. A quick mental calculation told Robin this was a bad deal as it would cost him over 50 dollars. He quietly slipped out of the house.                 The book fair usually would pick up in the evening. The fair hosted not only book publishers but also had a slew of planned cultural and social programs for all age groups. Many came just to party with friends, and others watched the programs that took place on two different stages in the Legion Hall, the children’s programs on the main floor, and the more thoughtful discussion-based programs on the top floor. Not that the whole community would flood in, but overall the fair saw a reasonable share of the crowd, especially during the evening hours. Walking around the bookstalls Robin bumped into several of his acquaintances. He chatted with each a little, bought tea and snacks like Muri-chanachur – puffed rice mixed with a fried South Asian delight - from the makeshift food stall, possibly run by the wife of the chief organizer, walked around some more in the crowd checking out the English books but with no plan to purchase any. Books were priced usually higher due to the overhead cost of hauling them from overseas paying big bucks and sales had always been poor. He was hoping to see some of his close friends. That would have allowed him to hang around a little longer. It felt uncomfortable walking all by himself.  A little later when he had given up all hope of finding any of his friends tonight and was about to make his trip out of the fair, his eyes settled on an attractive lady, who looked to be in her forties, her eyes darting around looking for something or someone, her beautiful face was displaying an equal amount of anxiety and curiosity as she tried to manage the anchal (free end of the saree that hangs over the shoulder) of her blue chiffon saree from slipping down. With a delightful gesture of her head and a fluid wavy movement of her model-like slick body, she then glanced at the big, partially bald gentleman who had been right on her heels and said, “Where do you think the show is going to be?” The man shook his head, looking quite helpless. He had no idea.   Clearly annoyed, the lady urged, “Don’t just stand there. Look for it. Ask somebody.”     Disappointed with his lack of enthusiasm, she looked around herself in search of somebody who looked bright enough to have this quite essential knowledge. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. He prayed, and hoped, she wouldn’t register him. But her eyes had quickly returned to him and were fixed this time. “Hey!” He smiled. He hadn’t seen Sumi for almost twenty-five years! She was beautiful then, a real eye-catcher, she looked even prettier in her middle age now, her beauty had escaped not only unhurt with the little signs of aging but had encaged every bit of glamour that came with the years. He had trouble moving his eyes off her. The fact that Sumi had recognized him readily filled him with a satisfying joy deep inside, something he tried not to spill out.  He took a few steps toward her, “Sumi! How are you?” Sumi briskly walked close to him, her body moved like a piece of music played on the strings of a guitar, her perfume traveled along, sipped into the air he breathed, and his heart pounded a little harder.  “I am seeing you after how many years!” She said with genuine excitement. “I heard you live in Toronto but who had ever thought we would see each other again like this? Where is your wife? Kids? How many kids do you have? You didn’t bring them?” She threw a glance at the gentleman who, after a little hesitation, decided to stay where he was instead of following his wife and continued, “That’s my husband.” Then to her husband who tried his best not to look awkward, “Why are you standing there all by yourself? Come here. This is Robin Bhai. He was my senior at Dhaka University. He was a very good sportsman. A star soccer player. Do you know how many girls had a crush on him!” She giggled like a teenage girl. When she laughed her eyes closed, giving the impression that she was about to cry. Robin had not seen this in anybody else. It was unique to Sumi. He shook hands with her husband who had now taken a few steps forward and stood close to them. “Nice meeting with you,” Robin said. The gentleman spoke in a deep voice, “Same here.” Sumi was now looking restless, glancing around, not sure what to do. “Do you know where the shows are taking place?” She asked Robin, a clear touch of frustration in her voice. “I am supposed to sing there. My schedule was for 8 PM. I am already late.” Robin had been coming to this fair for several years. The center was also commonplace for many other programs that various subgroups of the Bangladeshi community arranged. He knew the place quite well. He showed me the stairs that ran to the next floor. Sumi didn’t wait. She had to go. She was running late. As she turned around and rushed toward the stairs her anchal slipped out of her shoulder and flew in the air matching her flowing silky hair – a treat for the eyes, admitted Robin. Before climbing up she briskly looked at him and said, “We’ll talk later, Robin bhai. Why don’t you come upstairs? Listen to me singing.”   Sumi sang well. She used to sing while studying at Dhaka University. Robin made a gesture with his hand suggesting he would certainly come. The moment Sumi and her husband went out of his view he quickly walked out of the book fair and then out of the center altogether. Many years ago, a young, beautiful, charming, and energetic girl Sumi was a big fan of Robin - the star soccer player who everybody seemed to know by name. Robin couldn’t help himself but fall in love with that girl. He wanted to move a step further and asked her to go out with him, and be his girlfriend. Sumi laughed as if he had said something very comedic.  But when she noticed how sad and rejected he looked her manners had softened. She tried to explain her limitations. “This would never work out. You have no idea how my parents are. They are very conservative, and would never accept it. I am their only daughter. I can’t disappoint them.”             Robin knew it probably wasn’t just her parents. Many girls on the campus had boyfriends, with or without parental approval. Time had changed. Girls weren’t as helpless as they once were, especially not when they were in the pit of higher education. It was Sumi simply telling him he wasn’t good enough for her. It hurt. It hurt a lot. After that Sumi started to avoid him. Once Robin realized that he did the same.  It was all very embarrassing and painful.   In their house they had a tradition, decided and enforced by Lota, to eat together at dinner time, which Robin missed quite often and ended up eating all by himself. The issue was rooted in timing. Lota ate dinner at nine, forcing the kids to eat with her as well. Robin was a night owl. He ate his dinner at eleven. Lota didn’t like it and openly nagged about it but it was also one of those rare things that she accepted as inevitable knowing how stubborn and childish Robin could be in defending his unworldly dinner time.   Today, after returning home from the book fair, Robin found Lota setting up the table for dinner with the help of the kids. “Tonight, I’ll be eating with you guys.” He declared. Lota was suspicious. “Why the rajah sahib is suddenly being so generous?” she said, sarcastically. “Hungry,” Robin said, his eyes focused on Lota, watching her, examining her, keenly, lovingly. She was wearing a long maxi, decorated in red and green stripes, her shoulder-length hair untidy, runway strands poking out here and there, hair that was once dense and thick and dark but over the years had become thinner with hints of gray. When she smiled two shallow dimples became prominent on her cheeks, lightening up her face, making it look prettier. He loved to see her that way. When angry her eyes turned narrow, creases appeared on her smooth forehead, lips twisted – all combined she would look fierce, unforgiving. He loved to see that too. Many times, he wanted to bring the camera out and take pictures of her angry face but never felt safe enough to do so. Lota was very sensitive about her looks. With a little makeup, she transformed into the prettiest thing and stood out in a crowd of thousands.    There must have been something in his eyes because Lota noticed. She smiled with a little something too. “What’s the matter? Why the look?” Robin shook his head meaningfully, returning her smile. Finding a little privacy when the kids were distracted he whispered into her ears, “Looking pretty! Would you put on a nice saree after dinner, please? It’s a full moon tonight.” Lota smiled with the dimples dotting her cheeks. “Ah! Looks like Raja Sahib is in a pretty romantic mood today!” Robin stood next to her, their bodies touching, the warmth felt good. “Will you? The sky-blue saree.” Lota gave him a nudge in mock resentment. “Move away. Kids are here. Let them go to bed first.” She continued to arrange the table, serving dinner. He gave her a hand. She liked it. In a small space, as they moved from the kitchen to the dining table carrying dishes of food, their bodies brushed against each other, softly, the smell of her sweat from cooking in the kitchen blew into his nose, and there was a hint of spice in it but he still liked it. He knew he loved this woman, more than anybody he ever did, more than he loved Sumi. He suddenly felt this strong urge to open up, to unleash his little secret, “Lota, do you know what happened in the book fair today? I saw Sumi! Did I ever mention her to you? No? Oh! During my university days, I had a big crush on her. Ha…ha…ha…” He didn’t. There was no need to. The dimples assured him.