Keys to the Past

artwork by amina

Tareq looked out of the window. The air was humid and the sky somewhat overcast, but he decided against taking an umbrella. As he picked up his keys his wife Latifa called out: "Buy some ghee and sugar on your way home…I want to make some shuji for our guests this evening."
Saying he'd be sure to do so, Tareq closed the door and set off for work. He called out for the rickshaw that would take him to the bus stop. Tareq liked an easy life, and even though his journey to work was now more complex, he was pleased that they'd finally managed to move to Dhanmondi. It was so much closer for their daughters' schools...and even Latifa loved the neighbourhood.
Tareq's journey into work and his day at the office was uneventful, interspersed only by the odd half-cup of tea and a browse of the newspaper headlines. Although highly qualified with an MBA and a couple of specialist diplomas, Tareq had been unable to settle in the large conglomerates in which he'd managed to get previous jobs. Instead he chose to work as an administrator at his friend Nadim's small import/export business. The lifestyle suited him he knew Nadim from schooldays and Nadim never gave him too much of a workload; Nadim didn't really care if Tareq turned up on time, nor if they spent time reminiscing about the old days. OK, Tareq mused, the salary was poor, it was far from home, and there was no rent or car included (as his wife always reminded him) -- but there was no pressure, no internal politics, and most importantly, no hassle.
Tareq caught the bus home as usual, descending at his stop to call a rickshaw. He put out his hand and felt a raindrop. "Oh no!" he exclaimed, remembering that he also needed to buy the ghee and sugar. He walked back to the stall and made his purchases, the heavens rumbling gently as he did so, and the rain gradually increasing in intensity. Then, just as he was about to exit the shop, the torrent of rain became heaviest.
Tareq stood in the doorway and lit a cigarette, watching people dash back and forth to avoid getting drenched. As he did so an elderly man came up and asked if he had a cigarette to spare. The man didn't seem a beggar, yet not quite a 'bhadraloke'. Tareq produced a cigarette, and as he lit it he studied the man's face. It was wrinkled and dark; Tareq noted with interest that the man had pale greenish-grey eyes, much like his own, but with a more forlorn look.
Holding the cigarette in his fingers the man looked out at the sky and mumbled:
"The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven…"
Tareq was taken aback. "Shakespeare?" he enquired.
The old man looked deep into Tareq's eyes and replied, "Yes, I was once an avid reader and scholar, you know."
Tareq was fascinated. This man, in his faded lungi and frayed cheap Punjabi, looked like no scholar. Tareq wanted to find out more about him. "Come, share a cup of tea with me," he said, gesturing to the tea shop next door.
The man smiled placidly and replied: "As you please."
Tareq managed to find a spot in the shop with a clean table and a good view. He pulled a chair for the old man to sit down on. Tareq was tempted to fire a volley of questions at the old man. But seeing the man's trembling hands as he flicked the ash from his cigarette a saucer, Tareq instead asked: "Are you from around here?"
The man replied: "Yes, you could say so. I came to the town many, many years ago."
Just then the tea-boy came and asked for their orders.
"Half-cup, two spoons of sugar, lots of milk," the man requested; Tareq was amused; it was exactly how he liked his own tea!
"Just the same for me," Tareq ordered, smiling at the old man because of the coincidence. The man showed no response, just squashed his cigarette-end into the ashtray, gazing evenly at Tareq while doing so.
The tea-boy returned and placed a cup of tea in front of each man. The old man stirred his tea and, without prompting, started narrating his life story. He told of how, like Tareq, he was born in a town just outside Dhaka, into a Zamindar family. He told of how he had studied hard and married well. He'd moved to Dhaka soon after he got married, and had worked in various good companies around Motijheel. But those jobs hadn't suited him he was a timid man, not into workplace politics, and he'd sought a more comfortable job in a classmate's company.
At first things had gone well, and he was able to move to Dhanmondi and get his daughter married with lots of pizzazz. But around that time his wife fell ill and his classmate's company failed. Fearing his wife's health was deteriorating rapidly, his second daughter was married off young, but only thanks to the financial generosity of his eldest son-in-law. Oh, the shame of it all! His wife had moved back to the ancestral home and he'd followed, making a rough living from any occasional work he was able to get. He read poetry every day to keep himself cheerful; things were not looking good for him. His wife was chronically ill….nothing life-threatening; mental issues brought on by stress. His eldest daughter became increasingly embarrassed by his need of money and dishevelled appearance. She rarely visited, and he didn't like to intrude on her and her family. His youngest daughter was unhappily married, and her husband didn't take kindly to his visits. Still, whenever he came to Dhaka he paid brief visits...
Looking out, the man paused suddenly. "The rain has calmed, I must go if I'm to get back before dark; thank you for your hospitality."
With that, he got up and shuffled away into the still slightly drizzling rain. Tareq looked out after him. What a strange encounter! He paid the bill, picked up his keys and groceries, hailed a rickshaw and set off home.
As he pulled out his keys to open his apartment door, Tareq realised to his chagrin that he must have picked up the old man's keys by mistake. Unlike his, which were nice and shiny and sat on a smart chrome key ring with his company's logo, the grimy keys he now held in his hands were tied together with a dirty piece of thick jute string. Tareq was just about to rush back to the tea shop and see if he could catch the old man, who must have his keys, when he was struck by how similar the individual keys looked to his own. Out of curiosity he decided to try one….and to his astonishment it not only fitted, it opened the door! He entered the apartment and tried a second key in the door handle of the drawing room. It fitted! There were two more keys one of which fitted the main bedroom door. His wife looked up curiously; she was getting ready to receive guests. As she put on her earrings she watched and asked what he was doing. He gave no reply, but tried the fourth, smallest key in the door of the almirah they had been gifted on their marriage. It fitted, and the almirah opened with a slow, loud creak.
Tareq sat down on the adjacent chair with a thud.
"What's the matter?" his wife asked.
"Nothing my dear," he stammered. "You know I bumped into someone from the past today. He's changed so much, poor man." And casually, as if an afterthought, he added: "Remind me, I must send off some job applications tomorrow."
Julie Reza lives and works in London.