all sorts of things you don’t,’ Assad said. His voice had coarsened and deepened. ‘I know how . . .’ He lowered himself by stages, gently, gently, towards the ground, and then, quite suddenly, his hand shot out and caught Piklu round the neck. ‘I know how to kill a chicken.’
Piklu was trapped by the neck under Assad’s hand; his feet were running frantically in the dust.
‘The principle is the same,’ Assad said. ‘It’s the same for anything that you want to kill. You slice through the neck –’ for one moment I thought he had a knife in his pocket, that he was going to kill Piklu in front of me, but he was just slicing against Piklu’s white throat with the edge of his hand ‘– and then it bleeds to death, quite quickly. It makes a terrible mess, my father said. Not with a small animal like a chicken. But with bigger animals, it makes a big mess.’
I knew this was true. I had seen the slaughter of a cow in the street at the festival of Eid, and walked afterwards through the slip of blood on stone, the gallons of blood churning the streets into mud, the stench filling the street, like the crowd, pressing up against you. And afterwards, the stink that came from the tanneries, down by the river. It was unavoidable if you had to take a boat from Sadarghat, and the smell of the black water was the smell of large animals being slaughtered. If you lived in Dacca, you knew the big mess that a bigger animal made when it was killed.
All at once I could move. I rushed at Assad, screaming, my fists held high, and he let Piklu go. My chicken jumped to its feet, shuffling its feathers, and ran away to the far corner of the garden. I hit Assad with both my fists in the certainty that Piklu would now never again come to me of his free will: he would remember the day that I had asked him to come to me and I had delivered him to Assad. He would remember being held down by his throat against the dirt, and the thought that he was about to die, and he would run from me. I pummelled Assad, and he hit me back, his tupi flying from his head.
Then Nani, my grandmother, was in the garden. ‘Stop that at once,’ she said. ‘Brawling like street-urchins. Stop it. I’m ashamed of you, Saadi. What would Nana have to say? Do you think he would call you Churchill now?’
We stopped, our faces lowered towards the mud our fight had made. Grown-ups, when they interrupted our fights, had a way of insisting that we shook hands, apologized and made up with each other. It was their way. But Nani inspected Assad, his dirty shirt, his muddy hair, and the tupi lying on the leaves of a shrub, like washing laid out to dry, and made no such demand. ‘I know who you are,’ she said to Assad, taking his dirty head in her hands, turning it this way and that, like a shopkeeper with a fine vase. ‘I want you to leave my garden now, and never come back. You should never have come into my garden. Go away.’
Assad went. Nani watched him go every step of the way; she followed him to the gate, and shut it behind him with her own hands. ‘I don’t know how that was left open,’ she said. ‘Saadi, go and have a bath. I’m ashamed of you.’
7.
It was our ayah’s job to go and hail a cycle-rickshaw to take us, each Friday morning, from my parents’ house to my grand-parents’. When she opened the gates, you could see the woman who always squatted there, under the tree, breaking bricks and stones into rubble all day long; her skin was dry and white with the dust, and we were forbidden to speak to her. While our ayah was finding the cycle-rickshaw, my mother lined us up and inspected us. My sisters were wearing their best frocks; I was in my newest and whitest shirt. My brother was coming with us, unusually. He was wearing his best shirt. We knew what this meant, and before we set off, my mother asked us to behave especially well. There were people coming to Nana’s from the village. They were especially looking forward to seeing us,
Piklu was trapped by the neck under Assad’s hand; his feet were running frantically in the dust.
‘The principle is the same,’ Assad said. ‘It’s the same for anything that you want to kill. You slice through the neck –’ for one moment I thought he had a knife in his pocket, that he was going to kill Piklu in front of me, but he was just slicing against Piklu’s white throat with the edge of his hand ‘– and then it bleeds to death, quite quickly. It makes a terrible mess, my father said. Not with a small animal like a chicken. But with bigger animals, it makes a big mess.’
I knew this was true. I had seen the slaughter of a cow in the street at the festival of Eid, and walked afterwards through the slip of blood on stone, the gallons of blood churning the streets into mud, the stench filling the street, like the crowd, pressing up against you. And afterwards, the stink that came from the tanneries, down by the river. It was unavoidable if you had to take a boat from Sadarghat, and the smell of the black water was the smell of large animals being slaughtered. If you lived in Dacca, you knew the big mess that a bigger animal made when it was killed.
All at once I could move. I rushed at Assad, screaming, my fists held high, and he let Piklu go. My chicken jumped to its feet, shuffling its feathers, and ran away to the far corner of the garden. I hit Assad with both my fists in the certainty that Piklu would now never again come to me of his free will: he would remember the day that I had asked him to come to me and I had delivered him to Assad. He would remember being held down by his throat against the dirt, and the thought that he was about to die, and he would run from me. I pummelled Assad, and he hit me back, his tupi flying from his head.
Then Nani, my grandmother, was in the garden. ‘Stop that at once,’ she said. ‘Brawling like street-urchins. Stop it. I’m ashamed of you, Saadi. What would Nana have to say? Do you think he would call you Churchill now?’
We stopped, our faces lowered towards the mud our fight had made. Grown-ups, when they interrupted our fights, had a way of insisting that we shook hands, apologized and made up with each other. It was their way. But Nani inspected Assad, his dirty shirt, his muddy hair, and the tupi lying on the leaves of a shrub, like washing laid out to dry, and made no such demand. ‘I know who you are,’ she said to Assad, taking his dirty head in her hands, turning it this way and that, like a shopkeeper with a fine vase. ‘I want you to leave my garden now, and never come back. You should never have come into my garden. Go away.’
Assad went. Nani watched him go every step of the way; she followed him to the gate, and shut it behind him with her own hands. ‘I don’t know how that was left open,’ she said. ‘Saadi, go and have a bath. I’m ashamed of you.’
7.
It was our ayah’s job to go and hail a cycle-rickshaw to take us, each Friday morning, from my parents’ house to my grand-parents’. When she opened the gates, you could see the woman who always squatted there, under the tree, breaking bricks and stones into rubble all day long; her skin was dry and white with the dust, and we were forbidden to speak to her. While our ayah was finding the cycle-rickshaw, my mother lined us up and inspected us. My sisters were wearing their best frocks; I was in my newest and whitest shirt. My brother was coming with us, unusually. He was wearing his best shirt. We knew what this meant, and before we set off, my mother asked us to behave especially well. There were people coming to Nana’s from the village. They were especially looking forward to seeing us,
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