He broods on his age. His whole head is covered with grey hair now, but age can't be blamed for that. It is the hard work he has put into building up his legal business over the years that is responsible for this white hair. Those who do not know about his age and the premature graying of his hair may easily take him to be old. Clients come to him because of that faded silver arrangement of hair. Furthermore, the sight of his grown-up children also misleads one further about Khan Bahadur's age. But the reason for the latter is that he did not wait even for a while to marry after finishing his studies. In spite of these signs of maturity, he is not really that old. He himself does not feel the weight of age, rather thinks of himself as possessing the vigour and virility of youth. The web of his physique is strong, his backbone straight. There is still strength in body, hope in his mind. The future is not hazy and shadowy in his eyes yet.

Beyond this Mottaleb Saheb does not think. He is a lawyer. Throughout his life, just as one memorizes the Quran, he memorized the books tightly pressed in the wall-almirah. Which is why he does not rest until he inquires of a thing or analyzes an issue from the beginning. He finally concludes that he is not that old in spite of the gray hair on his head and his grown-up children. Now he advances carefully towards the next step in his line of thought.

He thinks that, despite gray hair and grown-up children, when he actually is not that old, if he wishes to marry again then the verdict of age cannot be raised to oppose that longing. He reconsiders this matter, then goes towards the third step. Here his children reign.

And here Khan Bahadur Mottaleb Saheb comes to a stop. His children interrupt his line of thought. Not once but many times.

In the silence of the room, the sweet smell of the hookah spreads intoxicatingly, a light bluish smoke that coils up but cannot escape.

But he can't be still for any length of time, and soon begins to ponder afresh. He finds, that throughout his life he has wandered in the nooks and crannies of complex laws like a restless insect, delivered lectures in the court, had shouted sometimes, sometimes laughed, sometimes mocked, sometimes cried, and given time and opportunity had also never hesitated, though with honour intact, to go to the judge's private chambers to pay his respects. As a result his practice had flourished: he had built a two-storeyed house in the town, turned the ancestral mud house into a brick one, constructed a mosque, had a pond dug to alleviate the problems faced by his neighbours. He had achieved both name and stature for his generosity and honesty. Though the gossip-mongers say that he secured the Khan Bahadur title by hosting a dinner for a British regiment. That talk is baseless rumour, merely malicious gossip.

This is his outer life. His inner life, however, is different, a cruelly-deprived private life. And the reason is his wife's dementia. Just after the birth of their fifth child many years back, she became what she is now. It's a wonder that he could have kept himself normal amidst the insane cries and laughter of an abnormal wife. He never slackened in fulfilling his responsibilities, and had taken care of his growing children.

But has that life, whose source dried so quickly, really given him any satisfaction?

Khan Bahadur Mottaleb Saheb stands up. Going inside the house he calls his children. They are very surprised, as he has never called them in such a way--a summons to a meeting. When they come one after another and sit in a circle in the bedroom, their faces are anxious.

Khan Bahadur Saheb does not look at them. Fixing his gaze on the wall in front, he sits straight. That lost look in his heavy, marble-like eyes is gone now.

Breaking the silence Mottaleb Saheb suddenly starts talking. In an easy tone he says that he has decided to bring a new mother for his children. While speaking, his deep voice does not ruminate, does not drift off. Why should it? Hasn't he considered the matter thoroughly before speaking? And why has he given the matter that much thought? Because he hadn't been thinking about his clients or competitors; he had been doing it for his near and dear children only.

After announcing his decision, Mottaleb Saheb does not wait any more. As he gets up to go, his right foot misses the sandal. Keeping his eyes straight ahead of him, he searches for his sandal with his foot. But even after he locates it, he can't get his foot inside it. The second-born daughter thinks she should go forward to help him, but today, freezes instead. The elder daughter, with a sidelong glance, looks at her father's right foot still searching for the sandal-hole. There's been many a day she has wished to touch those feet, but never could gather up enough courage. She has looked at him from a distance, her eyes tinged with respect and devotion. But even she cannot move today.

Finally Mottaleb Saheb is able to get his foot inside the sandal. Then he goes out of the room with slow but steady steps.

Though he is not that old, the grey hair does matter, and for that reason it seems out of place to have a gaudy, drum-beating wedding. One should marry with pomp and circumstance in the blazing brightly-coloured day of youth, since otherwise there is no way to hide the naked, limitless delight created by the sudden touch of life. But the marriage of an older person is better done averted from men's eyes.

Khan Bahadur decides to marry on a barge. The wide Jamuna, with its desolate banks. It seems right to marry on the swells of a distant, flowing river far from a world endlessly trodden by human footsteps.

After all the arrangements have been completed, the auspicious day arrives. That afternoon, swishing his walking stick, wearing a bright white sherwani, after rubbing attar on his moustache, Mottaleb Saheb steps out of his house. But the costly turban from his first marriage, which had lain carelessly on the high almirah, is now hidden in its box. Though this marriage is not like his first one, he cannot think of marriage without a turban. He had once thought of buying a new turban. But due to a mysterious hesitation, it has not been bought. A sort of shame clings to the turban, as if it was a magnet for pomp, a strong symbol of fresh youth.

Riding in the carriage, Khan Bahadur Saheb now thinks of the turban. Noju Mian has got up on the tandem behind with the hand box. He thinks, do the children know what is in that hand box?

The iron-covered wheels of the horse-carriage move squeaking on the road of brick and brick-dust. After going a quarter mile and passing the court, the road near the river can be found. The carriage moves crackling, the horse lacks speed. Mottaleb Saheb looks straight. Memories of his first marriage arise in his mind, its intoxicating madness. He had ridden to that marriage in a palanquin. The muscles of the arrack-drinking palanquin-bearers had been strong, their movements speedy. And on the young Mottaleb's head had been a turban made of crystal-clear bluish velvet like the rain-washed silver star-engraved sky.

Star engraved? Khan Bahadur Saheb sits up straight. Star engraved? Yes, of course! He had forgotten that detail: today will the stars over his gray hair make fun of him?

But there is still hope. Those stars lack brightness today; some have even been lost in the current of time. Khan Bahadur Saheb heaves a sigh of relief.

The carriage has arrived at the road near the river. Mottaleb Saheb looks towards the other shore of the Jamuna through the window. The afternoon's waning, pale yellow light over the outstretched sandy land arouses a feeling of emptiness. As he looks towards that unblinkingly, his eyes again become motionless like marbles. Even if a whirlwind rises over the sandy land his eyes will not move, will not blink. Then his eyes, weighty as marbles, become red; a bit of moisture is seen there. Why, he doesn't know. Nor does he want to know. He, who thinks so much, who weighs every detail like a restless insect, now never pauses to consider why his eyes are suffused with tears.

While he sways lightly with the movement of the barge on the Jamuna, a profound silence descends on his house. The sons are silent. Usually, reticent, today they are absolutely dumb. The youngest son had sown a bean-plant in the yard. Sitting on its roots he scratches the mud with a stick without any reason. The eldest son sits with a tough arithmetic problem, then opens a book of maps and follows the lines of a continent. Their two sisters sew with deep concentration; the third one pressing her face against the pillow sleeps deeply. In that deadly silent house, some sort of unnamed, unearthly substance casts its shadow.

Sometimes their insane mother regains her half-sense. Then she looks at her children in such a way that she appears to be entirely normal, as if taking her fill of them after a long time. Today, perhaps because of this unworldly soundlessness, she regains this half-sense. At first, there still is a perplexed, restless something in her eyes. But when she looks at her second-born daughter, a normal, curious look arises in her eyes.

While biting off a thread, the daughter looks towards her mother. The moment she does, she becomes still. She wants to cry out, but controls herself finally. Her heart trembling, she inwardly says: Ma, do you know me?

The mother's eyes do not move; she looks hypnotized. The daughter sits still, her sewing in her hand. Yet an unruly hope rushes through her mind like a storm. She wishes to rush towards her mother's lap where she will lay her head down in joyful reunion. But she doesn't have the strength to move. At the same time her mother erupts in laughter, the sound cutting fiercely through the silence. Though the laughter is very harsh, its unselfconsciousness makes it seem otherworldly. The daughter listens mutely; only the colours of her eyes change. Tears do not come. It would have been better if it had…

Clouds gather in the sky during the evening. Then those clouds advance calmly, slowly, shading the earth before breaking out in a heavy downpour, as if it could not tolerate the painful journey. Leaving that bean-plant, the youngest son steps back into the house; the eldest son perhaps would lie flat on the bed feeling the lack of light for arithmetical problems and maps. Only the daughters stubbornly continue sewing in the dim light. Today, in the kitchen, the old maidservant rules. She inwardly rages, after cooking rice and dal ties up her bundle. The eldest girl, the real mistress of the family, does not feel the urge to go to the kitchen today. When the darkness thickens the two girls go up to bed leaving behind their sewing. But sleep does not descend, only a sleep-like fatigue. The second-born girl presses her face cautiously against the pillow; one corner of the pillow gets wet. But because of her immobility, it does not seem as if the pillow is wet with her tears, it seems that the continuing rainfall outside has somehow got it wet.

It is the dead of night in the muffasil town. The house is suddenly startled awake by loud knocks at the door.

Khan Bahadur Saheb has returned drenched. True, Noju Mia has held the umbrella over his head, but he got thoroughly wet standing in front of the door. The bride is behind the closed window of the horse-carriage by the road. Even in the darkness she sits with her head bowed under her veil. The horse is getting wet in silence without any movement.

There is no response in the house. The youngest son has some sort of scabies. He stops itching on hearing the knocks on the door. The eldest son had thought of lighting a lantern in order to follow the lines of another continent, but now lies still. The daughters, though, feel their pulses quickening, but remain motionless like the sleeping princesses of fairy-tales.

The knocks on the door get louder. Then the sound of something breaking catches the ear. It seems as if the handsome walking stick had broken. The eldest daughter thinks in anxiety: why isn't the servant boy, or the maidservant, opening the door? But that servant boy is dead sleep, if pushed he will roll but not awaken. The maid can hardly hear.

Then a shadow stirs in the house. A figure comes out in silence from the room beside theirs, halts for some moments, then advances. In the blinking light of the lantern beside the bedstead, a gigantic human-shaped shadow arises on the wall. Then that shadow wavers, and again becomes small. Though the knocking on the door doesn't stop, the shadow is in no hurry, its movements slow.

The mad mother opens the door. She appears to look out at the rain falling in the darkness, then lets out an absent-minded laugh. Finally turns and goes inside, her mouth hanging open, without having even having taken note of who has come.

The girls have gotten up by that time. The boys, too, in the other room.

The girls rush out rubbing their eyes, feeling somewhat shameful. They whisper in a low voice: fie upon us, what a sleep we slept! Such a rainy day! They repeat the same thing as if they were reciting benedictions and salutations. The sons scratch their heads without saying anything. Though the scabies are on his buttocks, yet the second-born son scratches his head only. The eldest son, tall and slender, is overcome with shame and repentance.

At last, their new mother enters the house. A girl from a poor family. The shock of the wedding seems to have broken her. She, like broken glass, glitters inside the shattered pile of ornaments and clothes. Except for a portion of her chin, her face is hidden by the veil. Then the daughters one by one touch the feet of their mother nestled within the heap of broken-glass clothing. First the quick second-born daughter, squatting down to touch the feet and then her own chest, and then the others. The new bride doesn't look at anyone. Even though these grown-up children have come with her marriage, the new bride will not lift her eyes to stare immodestly at them.

During this time, Mottaleb Saheb's first wife observes the honouring ritual with gravity. When it is over, the eldest daughter bites her lower lip, afraid that her mother may suddenly burst out laughing. She shudders when she thinks about the harsh, mocking peals of laughter. Anxiety makes her pray: Allah, please don't make mother laugh.

Remote from all, Khan Bahadur Mottaleb Saheb stands rigidly straight. Wet splotches of water on the front of his dress, while his back is fully drenched. Even the kisty topi on his head has not escaped the rain. Of course, everybody had gotten wet. Even the bride's costly sari could not be saved. Not to mention Noju Mian, who seems to have taken a bath in his clothes.

But one thing was not wet. That is the costly mashadi turban of Mottaleb Saheb. It has returned the way that has gone, hidden in the hand-box.

Ahmed Ahsanzzaman teaches in the English department, Khulna University.

M. Kabir is a graduate of the same.