The Cheese Factory
By Mehreen Ahmed

 

Mila Chowdhury’s wedding took place last night on Baitul Mukarrum Lane in their house. It was the last house on that lane, beside a reputable cheese factory, Dhaka Cheese. Until the wedding, she had lived in this ancestral home, in an extended family with her mother, Nazmun Banu, her father’s brothers, Uncle Ashik, his wife Prema and their son Quasu, Aunty Lutfun and Uncle Sheri, her grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Chowdhury. Her father didn’t live here permanently as was expected. He had taken a second wife.

Ever since Mila learned to think, she knew that her family had non-traditional leanings. Her Uncle Ashik’s wife Prema had a previous marriage, too. Her ex-husband lived just next door. Unsure of how all this happened, their relationship had developed, much to her grandparent’s annoyance; love being what it is like high-tide, they were unstoppable. They had eloped and married. Mila’s grandparents hadn’t accepted them at first, but after about two years when Quasu was born, they took them back because of the new grandchild.

 

Mila Chowdhury had been an only child in this house for a long time until Quasu came along. He was now five years of age. The next day, after the wedding, when she was at her in-laws, Prema, Lutfun and Nazmun Banu sat in the orchard at teatime, and indulged themselves in idle talks; all the wedding excitement had dissipated from this house; sluggishness had descended. Autumn leaves had covered much of the grounds.

 

“My Quasu is special in so many ways,” Prema declared.

 

“Well, of course he is,” Lutfun answered.

 

“His teacher at school said that he is doing wonders with his studies. He’s far ahead than the rest of the boys in his class.”

 

“That’s lovely, we all want the best for him,” Nazmun Banu said as she yawned and looked around the orchard.

 

“Your brother Ashik said, we may send Quasu to an expensive English medium school since Dhaka Cheese is doing so well,” Prema said.

 

“That’s awesome news, why not? But I hope you won’t move out. The house feels a bit empty already, without Mila.”

 

“Yes, how time flies. Mila was born just the other day. And now? It will be the same for Quasu too. He will grow up, slithering sands through our fingers,” Lutfun said.

 

Lutfun didn’t have any children. But she didn’t miss much with Quasu being around. Little Quasu spent her days busy.

 

“What else does Quasu’s teacher tell you?” Nazmun Banu asked.

 

“Oh, are you kidding me, sister?” Prema asked.

 

Prema was aware of bad blood between Nazmun Banu and herself, although it was all nicely papered over with smiles and etiquettes practiced in this house. The reason for this rivalry was unimaginably mundane. While Prema could remarry Ashik by divorcing her ex-husband, Nazmun Banu couldn’t.

She couldn’t move on, even if she wanted to because in the eyes of her in-laws she was the righteous, holy wife; she had a reputation to live up to. When Prema stopped for a moment to catch a breath from bragging about Quasu, which she had been doing often to almost everyone’s disapproval, Luftun chimed in “Tea anyone?”

 

“No, no, Quasu would be home soon, I must get his juice ready,” Prema said.

 

She rose from her chair to go indoors. While Lutfun and Nazmun waited around and looked at each other.

 

“Oh! Intolerable! She just wouldn't stop now, would she? Every time we are together, must she brag about how great Quasu is? My Quasu, my Quasu is the best, he is this and that and what have we? As though we don’t know what Quasu is? As though we don’t love him enough, already.”

 

Nazmun finished in unabated breath.

 

“That’s just her. Yes, I know it can be irritating. But you know what?” Lutfun asked.

 

“What?”

 

“I have seen her other children from her ex coming around here and asking the maids if they could see her.”

 

“Really? Gosh! What would our amma say?”

 

“Mother-in-law knows. She looks the other way,” Lutfun said.

 

“What a mess! Really! Say, how do you know?” Nazmun asked.

 

“One day, amma and I were sitting together under the neem tree. She saw them enter through the main gate and talk to the gateman. She didn’t invite them to come inside or anything but she overheard them asking about their mother.”

 

“Hmm, how sad. I really feel sorry for those kids,”

 

Nazmun looked away at the orchard aimlessly and sighed. Lutfun was quiet too. After some time, she rose from her chair and ambled through the autumn orchard. She looked at the plantain tree and a bunch of ripened mangoes hanging over it from the adjacent mango tree.

 

She reached out for one. She twisted it in clock and anticlockwise before she pulled one-off. With the mango in her hand, she looked at it and played with it unmindfully, tossing it up and down in the air a few times, then as the sun downed, red streaks in the autumn sky, she returned to where Nazmun had been sitting downcast, amongst the circle of chairs.

 

“Should we go in, now?” Lutfun asked.

 

Nazmun looked up at Lutfun and said, “Mila didn’t call today, did she?”

 

“Not that I know. Why?”

 

“I wonder how she is in that new place with her in-laws.”

 

“She will be back tomorrow after the Walima celebrations,” Lutfun said.

 

“Yes, of course. She didn’t mention a honeymoon, yet,” Nazmun said.

 

“They just got wedded, yesterday.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Have you decided what you are going to wear for the Walima?” Nazmun asked.

 

“Yes, my pink Kanjivaram with the pearl and ruby necklace. What about you?”

 

“I’ll wear my white Kathan silk, with the diamonds.”

 

Nazmun rose and stood abreast of Lutfun; they walked towards the balcony to enter the house. The balustrade of the balcony was covered in green overhanging vines, trees, money plants and, rhododendron fell, a delicate curtain of privacy. Lutfun glanced at it and decided that they needed some trimming. As they entered the room, they saw Mrs. Chowdhury sitting by the window in the quiet evening’s shadow; her walking stick leaning against her.

 

They didn’t know where Prema had disappeared with Quasu. But the telephone suddenly rang in the hallway, cutting out the blissful silence of dusk.

 

“Oh! Who could that be?”

 

Nazmun hissed. But before they could reach the phone, Prema had already picked it up.

 

“Hello,” she answered organizing her sari over her shoulder.

 

“Hello, this is Mila, Is that you, Choton?”

 

“Yes, beta it’s me. How are you?”

 

“We’re well. Sorry, I couldn’t call you earlier today. We had to go to a feast given in our honor, the newlywed?”

 

“That’s great. Enjoy every bit, maa. How are your in-laws, Mr. and Mrs. Khan?”

 

“They’re well. And so is Irfaan. Anything new there?”

 

“No, not particularly. The house feels empty, now that you have gone. The decorations are still there. Some have been taken down. The yard is a mess at the moment.”

 

“Yes, I can understand? The wedding was great.”

 

“Quasu misses you a lot, beta. But he’s really doing well in class. He’s at the top of the world right now.”

 

Lutfun and Nazmun were overhearing this conversation from the other room. Luftun suppressed a giggle, while Nazmun blurted out rolling her eyes, “here we go again.”

 

“Shh, keep your voice down, she’ll hear us,” Lutfun said.

 

Nazmun continued to look at Prema until she finished her conversation. Until the receiver was handed to her. Prema paused and looked back at them, signaling to come forward. First, Nazmun, then Lutfun. The conversation went well over an hour. They talked about girly stuff, about the in-laws, and parties, and the honeymoon. They had been planning to go on a honeymoon soon, but undecided whether it would be Cox’s Bazaar or Rangamati. Mila, then let Lutfun in on a secret about the wedding night. Lutfun giggled and hid her face from the gazing Prema and Nazmun, so they wouldn’t hear. They got the drift and moved away.

 

“And then what happened?” Lutfun whispered.

 

“He took me in his arms first. I lay there on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. He held me tight, then tighter, until we both had goosebumps all over us. He kissed me on my forehead, nose, lips. And then …”

 

“And then? What? Tell me?” Lutfun asked.

 

“I’ll tell you later when we return for the Walima.”

 

“Yes, that’s tomorrow. See you soon.”

 

“See you.”

 

Mila hung up. It wasn’t Lutfun’s intention at all to smoke out what had happened on the wedding night. But Mila’s spontaneity drew her into their own romance of this special night. Why would anyone be so inclined to find out about such intimacy? But they were. Lutfun was just as eager to listen, as Mila was eager to tell.

 

The tradition of Walima usually took place one or two days after the wedding ceremony. This ceremony was hosted by the groom’s family after which the bridal couple returned to the bride’s father’s house and stayed there for a couple of days before they went back to the in-laws or to their own homes. However, Mila’s case was different. They were planning to go on a honeymoon straight from her father’s house.

 

The next day, Nazmun Banu, Prema and Lutfun were making the Walimah preparations. There was much to be done. They had to decorate Mila’s room. Loads of garlands were brought in. Lutfun and Prema took the garlands into Mila’s bedroom.

 

Prema walked up first and towards the wooden shutters. She opened them ajar, as a flurry of dust flew everywhere. A slight ray of autumnal sun filmed the floating dust particles in its golden light tunnel. Lutfun looked at the bed and decided to put a cover on. She walked up to the wooden wardrobe made of ornate old Mahogany.

 

The doors creaked when she opened them. Lutfun rummaged through the cupboard looking for a new bed cover. Accidentally, she opened the drawers and underneath tons of rubbish, she found some old pictures. They were mostly Mila's friends, but one friend Lutfun recognized. That was Rahim Ali, in his round spectacles.

As she kept looking through, she found some letters too. Rahim Ali had written Mila letters. Lutfun felt an urge to open them. Old lovers, they were, or nearly, but the letters spoke about undying love. She read at least two of them; beautiful words, written and rewritten many a moment of un- relinquished love. Words which had tried over and over to tie a bond, cajoling her to come closer. Words which flowed like a river, rain in moon drops. Poetry, which expressed how they sat in the rain. She, by his side. Her head lay on his chest.

 

She held him tight and he held her until a raindrop fell on her lips. He held her chin and licked it off her luscious lips. A fire raged within her. It also raged within him. A romance was born out of a flame which had indeterminate direction. He carried her indoors. A flash of lightning clapped, a storm brewed. Lutfun read them mesmerized. Then the lovemaking began. He took her top off. A beautiful body was revealed. He kissed it. He kissed every nuanced fold until she surrendered. Sweet. It was sweet. Sweet surrender, the storm began. They danced. It was oneness. It was all. It was blissful. Lutfun also read that the writer was not Rahim Ali but taken from a poet’s unpublished work. Lutfun had not heard the name before, until just now.

 

“Hey, what're you doing there? Have you found some bedclothes?”

 

Prema’s shrill voice brought Lutfun back. She closed the drawer in a hurry and pulled out new bedclothes neatly packed in a wrapper on one of the shelves. Nazmun Banu may have bought them some time ago and stuffed them in here. She gave them to Prema. But Prema saw her absent-mindedness.

 

“Everything, okay?”

 

She asked as she took the bedclothes out of the wrapper.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Lutfun said. “Nice.”

 

Prema, held one end of it and Lutfun the other as they both made the new bed together. Lutfun held a lump in her throat thinking how far had this relationship between Rahim Ali and Mila had progressed? Lutfun felt betrayed thinking that Mila had not confided to her about these many letters. The bed was made in silence.

 

The sheets were stretched like fabric ironed on an ironed board, without a single crease. In the meantime, a maid named Shimul entered the room with a hand full of rose garlands for decoration. The three decorated the bed. Some of the heavy garlands were laid across the four mosquito net stands. The rest of the roses were spread evenly on the bed. Prema, Lutfun and Shimul stood back to look at the decoration. The roses looked brilliant in the autumn sun, streaming through the open shutters. A light fragrance pervaded the air as a prelude to the romance which was going to ensue, the night of the Walimah.

 

They left the room with the windows open to air it for a while. Unless there was a strong wind, there was no reason to close the shutters. Let the room bask in the glow of the mellow autumn sun. As the trio walked out of the room, they found Nazmun Banu in the corridor.

 

She had a bottle of mango pickle jars in her hands. Nazmun looked at them and peeked into the room through the narrow opening of the doors, as Prema was closing it. Nazmun smiled. She liked what she saw. Then she saw Shimul the maid, who was also standing with them. She extended the jars towards Shimul to sun pickle. Shimul, took them and walked away. She went towards the roof, to put them out in the sunlight.

 

It dazzled on the cemented roof. The light shone like diamond glittering on the aluminum jar covers, as she lined them up on the roof’s edge next to each other. She squinted against the autumnal dazzle. She stopped to glance at the night flowering jasmine hanging over the mossy walls. She saw a few flower petals, scattered on the roof.

The stem of the shiuli or rather jasmine was a potential orange dye, which could be used to dye clothes. She sauntered towards the fallen flowers and picked at least two handfuls. She pouched them in her sari and ran downstairs. A gusty wind blew a strand of hair across the face.

 

The Walimah was just two just hours away. Time to get dressed. Shimul rushed from one room to the next running errands for them. Lutfun needed a hairpin to be put in place on the French Knot. Prema needed Shimul’s help with the sari. Shimul sat down on the floor and held the fall of the sari’s pleats as Prema neatly organized them at the top, and secured them by tucking the edge in the petticoat around the waist.

 

Nazmun Banu couldn’t find her matching blouse and called out for Shimul. Shimul then flitted to her room and pulled the blouse from under the piles of saris and jewellery boxes on the bed. The three dressed ladies came out of their rooms, where their husbands had been waiting under the car porch. Shimul saw them out, with sigh of relief when they were inside the respective cars, comfortably seated, and were driven out. The Walimah venue was the Malibagh Lady's centre.

 

It was a silent house now. The servants were either napping or cooking up bridal meals in the kitchen at the advent of Mila’s and Erfaan’s homecoming. Shimul walked calmly up to her room under the staircase. She pulled out a dented aluminum pan off a shelf fixed on the wall of the room. The pan had gatherings of shiuli flowers.

 

She sat on the floor by the pan and began to separate the saffron stems off the flower petals. Once it was done, she walked a few steps towards the kitchen. The stoves were fully occupied. Shimul, stood by the door, leaning against it and waiting for a stove to be free. She wanted to boil some water to douse the shiuli stems to unlock the colors. She had a white sari, a gift from Mrs. Chowdhury. She wanted to color the sari in the shiuly saffron. The only time she was free before the bridal party returned.

 

Shimul walked over to her room. Hardly any sunlight entered this time of the day into this room. There was an opening through the roof which allowed a slight ray. In the dim light, she looked in the direction of her belongings. They were her beddings and a battered trunk. She went over to the trunk and sat down by it. She opened it.

 

The white sari was on top. She only had a couple of clothes on them which she wore every day. She took the sari out of the trunk and rubbed it over it. The fabric felt smooth and new. It was a hundred percent cotton. She dropped the lid to the trunk and exited the room.

 

Back into the kitchen, when a stove was free, the chef boiled some water for her and had poured some into a pan. Shimul returned to the kitchen and found the infusion of saffron ready. She smiled at the chef and unfolding the sari, pressed it into the infusion. She moved the fabric around into the color. Putting a lid to the pan, she left it by the door for the color to seep through the fabric for a few hours.

 

She walked through the dark yard feeling forlorn. She thought of her own wedding day. She thought about how it ended suddenly one day when her husband married for the second time. He had jilted her and hurt her. She had stopped living, breathing. One day, she decided to leave and come to Dhaka.

 

She found employment in the cheese factory first, and through a friend’s recommendation there, she found this job, here. She had decided this was a life of freedom. People marry because of social reasons. But there was no other freedom, apart from earning one’s own keep. Trapped in a loveless, broken marriage was like a wheel locked to its spokes, tied up ruthlessly. The wedding party would be back soon. Shimul found this moment to reflect over her life as a maid. It was still freedom; she was free.

Mehreen Ahmed from Australia is widely published and critically acclaimed by Midwest Book Review, DD Magazine, The Wild Atlantic Book Club to name a few. Her short stories are a winner in The Waterloo Short Story Competition, shortlisted in Cogito Literary Journal Contest, a finalist in the Fourth Adelaide Literary Award Contest, winner in The Cabinet of Heed stream-of-consciousness challenge. Her works are three-time nominated for The Best of the Net Awards, the Pushcart Prize Award, two-time nominated for Aurealis Awards. Her book is an announced Drunken Druid's Editor's Choice