Conversation by Zahin Towhid

Why did I stop speaking to you? I want to say I had no choice in the matter but that would be a lie. There was always a choice. There was a story too. I would have told you this had I spoken to you. But here it is. I will keep it short. 

That day after school, after I said goodbye to you and you had left, Amma came to pick me up. Do you remember the slow traffic outside school? Our rickshaw was stuck in the traffic. There were two lanes of rickshaws, one after the other, tightly packed, all the way to the end of the street. The pullers kept dinging their rickshaw bells, even though no one could have moved an inch. 

Street hawkers passed through the narrow space in between the two lanes, selling all sorts. Street food, kitchen utensils, plastic jewellery, and that day there were a few running around with pirated copies of Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things. It had won the Booker the year before. 

I bought an Aamra fruit from one of the street vendors and he cut it out like they always did, into slices that hung out from the base like a green flower. He put it on a stick and dipped it into a can of red pepper salt. 

“Don’t have it with that salt,” Amma said, “It’s dirty. They just keep it open like that, with all the dust and fumes from the streets. Wash it first when you go home.” The vendor wrapped the Aamra in a piece of paper for me. 

I sat with the Aamra carefully cradled in my hands. The paper was soggy with my sweat and the red pepper salt melted in the heat. Drops of the copper-coloured salt water trickled through my fingers and fell on my uniform. 

Amma was bargaining with one of the hawkers selling the book, when a motorbike came and stopped next to our rickshaw. 

There were two women on the bike. The woman driving it had short boy cut hair. She wore a man’s kurta salwar. The woman behind her, wore a saree. Her long hair untied; she had one of her arms around the waist of the other woman. The bike slowly moved ahead of us, zigzagging through the two lanes of rickshaws. 

“Disgusting,” Amma said, as she looked at the bike. She handed over the book to the hawker and waved him away. 

First, I thought it was because of the salt water on my uniform, which had made a small red stain, but then I noticed she wasn’t looking at me. I asked her what it was that had annoyed her. Amma hesitated for a moment and then pointed to the bike and said, “Them. They are lesbians.” 

I am not sure what possessed me, but I looked at the bike and without thinking said “How do you know? And is it a problem?” 

“Don’t you ever speak to me like that!” Amma said and looked directly at me. But I didn’t look at her or respond. 

I quickly opened the paper wrapping of my Aamra, broke two slices and put them into my mouth all at once. 

“Don’t ever say that again! Do you understand?” 

I broke two more slices and put them in my mouth. Amma stared at me, and I could feel her shaking. 

“It is disgusting and abnormal!” 

I stared at the remaining bit of the fruit. The fleshy stone with its thorns and I started to bite out the flesh around it. The thorns softly pricked against my lips. 

“Women cannot fall in love with each other! That is how it is!” 

I decided I would eat the whole stone. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and put in the whole stone with the thorns. As I closed my mouth, the thorns scratched and pricked against my tongue and the roof of my mouth. 

I couldn’t hear Amma anymore. 

I concentrated on moving the stone inside my mouth so that I could get a chewing grip on it with my teeth. But it wouldn’t budge. I sucked back the saliva gathering inside my mouth and the thorns began to hurt. I opened my mouth into a big ‘O’ and rolled it onto one side with my tongue as hard as I could. It finally moved and I got a grip of it with my teeth. I then bit as hard as I could and crushed the stone with the thorns and flesh around it. A bitter taste of the crushed stone and the thorns spread through my mouth. I sucked in the saliva again and pushed the stone at the back of my tongue so that I could swallow it. I then put both hands on my mouth to muzzle the gagging I felt at the back of my throat. 

And then suddenly it got stuck inside my throat. I looked at Amma and tried to speak but no sound came out. 

I jumped out of the rickshaw in panic and Amma looked at me shocked and confused. I couldn’t breathe. I grabbed my throat and tried to squeeze out the stone. Suddenly someone from one of the other rickshaws rushed to my side, grabbed me from behind and forcefully pulled under my ribcage. When I coughed the stone out of my mouth, it flew out and hit Amma’s face and then fell on her lap. 

So that is the story. 

I am sure you don’t think about that time. School was so long ago. But in case you ever wonder why I had suddenly stopped speaking to you halfway through seventh grade, it is because several days after that incident it hurt to speak. Later it was easier just not to.