The Children of This Madness

PRAISE

FOR

THE CHILDREN OF THIS MADNESS

"A heartfelt yet clear-sighted novel about the gains and losses of immigration, both personal and political, The Children of This Madness masterfully explores the fascinatingly different worlds in which a father and a daughter exist, and what happens when these worlds collide."

—Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, author of Independence and The Forest of Enchantments

"The elegant twined narrative of The Children of This Madness offers the reader an intimate view of a complicated familial, and geopolitical, drama. I’ve always found fiction the best, most compassionate and honest resource for learning about the real world. Wahhaj’s novel is a wonderfully useful addition to my own education. I really enjoyed reading this; the author made a very complicated situation lucid and moving."

—Antonya Nelson, author of Funny Once and Bound

"In The Children of This Madness, Gemini Wahhaj weaves a moving, powerful story that spans generations and continents. Told through the lives of a Bengali father and daughter reckoning with their dreams and what they've lost, this work is an essential new addition to the Bengali diasporic literary landscape, one that deepens our understanding of how delicate internal struggles come head to head with seismic historic events. As inheritors of centuries-long imperialist, colonial power struggles, the interconnected and vividly drawn relationships at the heart of this novel reveal to us the ways in which desires for freedom and material security are inevitably, and tragically, entangled in the machinations of war and power. We remember by reading Wahhaj's work that love and memory is what remains when all else disappears."

—Tanaïs, author of In Sensorium and Bright Lines

"Centered around the US invasion and destruction of Iraq, The Children of This Madness shows us how the Global South enters the empire or, rather, how the empire assimilates the Global South. In clear-eyed staccato style, Gemini Wahhaj insists on a humane narrative here and elsewhere. Houston, Texas represents. But Iraq and Bangladesh are essential, reminding us that there's a world out there larger and more connected than the time-space capsule in which imperial wars exist. A fantastic novel. Unbeholden to the market powers that normalize destruction in the name of culture. "

—Fady Joudah, author of Tethered to Stars and Mizna: The Palestine Issue

This extraordinary novel has the texture of lived life, with all its ruptures and complications. Nothing in Wahhaj’s propulsive story has been packaged for a foreign audience, nothing feels manipulated or forced. The Bangladesh she describes (but never romanticizes) is at once sumptuously beautiful and, in colonialism’s wake, heartbreakingly corrupt. Rather than moving in one direction and looking back with regret, Wahhaj’s nuanced characters are buffeted here and there by the convulsions of geopolitics and war, trying to figure out what it means to be at home in the world.

—Nell Freudenberger, author of Lost and Wanted and The Newlyweds

the children of this madness

_

by

Gemini Wahhaj

7.13 Books

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Selections of up to one page may be reproduced without permission. To reproduce more than one page of any one portion of this book, write to 7.13 Books at [email protected].

Cover art by Alban Fischer

Edited by Kurt Baumeister

Copyright ©2023 by Gemini Wahhaj

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

ISBN (paperback): 979-8-9877471-0-0

ISBN (eBook): 979-8-9877471-5-5

LCCN: 2023940607

For Arif

We are the children of this madness. Let us be whatever we wish.

—Saadi Youssef, from A Friendship, translated by Khaled Mattawa

1. the Party

Houston, March 19, 2003

Beena’s friend Salma was throwing a housewarming party on a quiet cul-de-sac of a gated community in Katy. Besides Beena, six families and one bachelor had been invited. Earlier in the day, Salma had swung by Beena’s apartment in the city and driven her back to Katy for the party with the singular purpose of introducing her to their friend Khaled, who had just moved to Houston with a lucrative job. She had dressed Beena in an embroidered, blue handloom-silk sari and hung a heavy pendant necklace around her neck. She had lined her large eyes with thick kohl and mascara, contoured her long, narrow face, and painted her wide mouth to a smooth, scarlet luster. Salma herself was dressed in a sequined, heavy silk sari a shade of onion pink. Her small, piquant face was heavily made up to a thick, smooth finish, and her bob-cut hair had been sprayed and glued in place.

Following the custom at these parties, the men sat separately in the formal living room at the front of the house, while half a dozen women, adorned in embroidered silk saris and matching blouses, stood glittering under the bright lights of the kitchen. When Beena said hello, a few of the women looked back at her with hard eyes, probably because she had rebuffed their invitations in the past. She stood to one side observing them, struck by the sameness of their makeup and by their squealed greetings and busy activity–slicing tomatoes and cucumber for a salad, setting out metal serving spoons, and preparing the percolator for tea after dinner. In all her graduate student years in Houston, Beena had stayed away from this crowd. She had too much work to attend parties, and no car to drive to the suburbs where the Bangladeshi engineers lived, forty minutes to an hour outside the city. Also, she didn’t have money to buy the expensive gifts people hauled in the front door at these parties.

Salma’s husband Ronny entered the kitchen shouting. Salma! Where are the appetizers? The men are starving! There was a feigned note of tyranny in his voice, but he was smiling and the eyes that met Beena’s shone with a wicked humor.

Beena liked him. He was a relaxed person with a frank, round face. He was dressed in brand-name clothes, a blue-and-white-checked dress shirt with the Ralph Lauren Polo logo and wool grey trousers, and he reeked of cologne.

Salma turned from the oven, her hands deep in silicone gloves. She had been bent low, watching the large aluminum-foil pans in which she was warming the dishes she had cooked throughout the week. Her hair was plastered to her forehead in the heat.

Khaled! she shrieked, coming forward, grinning at the man who stood behind her husband, her pin-black eyes dilated with pleasure.

Why are you acting so surprised? Didn’t I tell you Khaled was coming? Ronny said peevishly. He only moved to Houston three weeks ago. Right, Khaled?

I’m so happy to see you, friend! Salma cried.

Thank you for inviting me. I was pining away in my hotel room, a thick voice answered.

Looking up, Beena saw a tall man with a chiseled face and a head of thick, tightly curled hair.

Salma pulled Beena toward her. Khaled, this is my school friend Beena, our teacher’s daughter. You remember Nasir Uddin Sir.

Kemon achhen? How are you? Khaled asked, smiling.

Beena nodded stiffly.

He looked like he was about to speak further when another man dragged him away.

Left alone, the women redoubled their activity.

We have to get the appetizer ready. The men left without food. How embarrassing! Salma Apu, is the chotpoti warm yet? Shona received the tray of chotpoti from Salma and placed it on top of a dish warmer. A young housewife and skilled homemaker, she was considered a great asset at these parties. Picking up a kitchen lighter, she started to light the candles under the dish warmers arrayed on the counter. How did you cook so much food, Salma Apu?

I did a little bit every day after returning from the office. Salma pushed the beef back in the oven, saying that the foil was still cold to the touch. What can I say? I have been under so much stress at work. I’m keeping a low profile at the office since all this business with WMDs. They keep asking me my opinion about Iraq, as if South Asia and Middle East are the same place!

I know, Apu! Bulbul has been saying the same thing. What a nuisance! Now they think all Muslims are bad. Shona wrinkled her thin, powdered nose to express her dismay.

Beena listened to them with a sudden intensity. Her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed. As the threat of a US invasion in Iraq had intensified over the past month, she had been perusing the online newspapers anxiously. I grew up in Iraq, she said, moving closer.

These cabinets are so nice, Salma Apu! Shona exclaimed. Is the countertop made of granite?

Yes. We had the cabinets and countertops upgraded from what the builder gave us, Salma said.

I keep asking Bulbul to remodel our kitchen, but he won’t listen to me. Shona pouted. How much did it cost you, Apu? Which company did you hire to do the work?

Oh, we have a great guy, Salma said.

Apu, please give me his number!

I will. Salma turned to Beena. I’ll have to give you his number too, Beena. You will need it soon enough. She burst into laughter at her own joke.

Is there something we don’t know? another woman asked.

As if to avert the other woman’s curiosity, Salma said, Our work is done here. The men can come and get the appetizer. Who wants a tour of the house? She threw her shoulders back and placed her hands on her hips, looking archly at the group.

Give us a tour, Apu! the women cried.

Beena followed the women engaged in their favorite activity, taking the measure of a house. Salma explained that the builder had built only ten such Mediterranean-style homes in their subdivision, modeled after wealthy neighborhoods in California and Florida, with stucco columns and arches, terracotta-tile roofs, curved parapets, and white stucco walls laced with wisteria vines. Inside, there were all the features desirable in the new Houston homes. A grand entryway with a marble floor and high ceiling led to a curved staircase with a decorative balustrade. Salma showed off the new furniture she had bought to complement the expanded space: new leather sofas in the family room, floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with entertainment devices, and shiny satin curtains hanging from the tall windows of every room.

The men had been reclining on two white couches, hands clasped over paunches, when the women entered.

Guys, the appetizer is ready, Salma announced.

The men stirred and rose to their feet. In their mid-thirties, they had acquired the same polished, round faces and they wore the same brand-name clothes from upscale department stores. From long association, Beena had gathered that the engineers only associated with other engineers. They were fond of saying that they were the crème de la crème of their country. Out of the lakhs of students who passed the higher secondary exam in Bangladesh every year, only five thousand qualified to take the admission test at the engineering university, and out of those applicants, only six hundred were admitted as students. After graduating, they had gained admission in various master’s degree programs in the US. And immediately after completing their graduate degrees, they had been snatched up by companies eager to hire them at mouth-watering salaries.

Salma pointed out the Bangladeshi décor in the formal living room. She had bought some of the furniture and art pieces in Dhaka and had them freighted by sea. A teak-wood cabinet with a crystal-cut glass door and glass shelves displayed a golden brass horse, a silver rickshaw, and a silver cup and spoon. A vinyl turntable record player sat on top of a corner table. A framed nakshi katha covered the length of one wall, while an original oil on canvas by Shahabuddin, signed and dated by the artist, took up another. Only the sleek, flat-screen TV mounted on the wall above the gas fireplace clashed with these imported items of Bengali heritage.

Shona turned to Salma. How did you bring all this, Apu?

Ronny’s company paid for it all.

Really, Apu? How wonderful!

Yes, the benefits at his company are unbelievable. They spoil you. Salma pointed to a view of the front yard through an expanse of glass panels. We bought the house because of this view. We fell in love with these French windows. Large pieces of glass like this are very expensive. But because of these windows, during the day, this room is washed in sunlight.

The men returned with chotpoti in Styrofoam bowls and resettled on the sofas. Seeing the women still in the room, they kept their heads low and spoke in low voices.

Did you have to cut down any trees to clear the yard? Mehjabeen’s husband Nazmul Bhai asked Ronny.

We didn’t have to do anything. The developer cut two trees and cleared the bushes before we moved in, Ronny said.

Be careful. There could be snakes, said Nazmul Bhai. This area used to be rice fields.

Ronny nodded. I know.

You can buy pellets at Home Depot to keep the snakes away, Nazmul Bhai went on. Just sprinkle them on the grass.

What about foxes, Nazmul Bhai? Raccoons? Jackals? What other wild animals are here? Shona’s husband Bulbul teased the man.

Are you mad? Nazmul Bhai expostulated. How would jackals come here? Is this Bangladesh?

All this time, Beena’s eyes had been adjusting to the dark room. She kept her gaze fixed on the glass to avoid seeing the person whose presence she was most conscious of in the room. She had forgotten what he looked like. Only a genial impression remained of a conventionally handsome visage, a blank canvas standing in for the romantic heroes of Bengali movies.

Khaled! How do you like your new job? Shona’s husband Bulbul asked. He leaned forward to listen to the answer with a rapt expression on his round face.

Good, Khaled said. He spoke in a powerful voice with a rich timbre.

Salma turned to the other women. Cholo. Let’s go see the bedrooms upstairs! After that, we will come down and serve the food. There were four bedrooms upstairs, one of them turned into a recreation room where the children were sitting.

When Beena stepped forward to join the others, Salma shook her head. Drawing close to Beena, she brushed Beena’s mouth with a feathery finger, as if to fix her lipstick, and whispered in her ear, Stay. Aloud, she said, Beena, Ronny was asking about Sir only a few days ago. Why don’t you stay and tell him about your father?

The women fluttered up the stairs, their high heels thudding on the wood steps.

Ronny gestured to Beena. Sit.

Beena pulled a white leather armchair with a studded back and sat down near him, carefully arranging Salma’s sari about her.

How is Sir? Ronny asked.

Bhalo. He is well.

Will he come to visit?

He refuses to visit, Beena complained. He says he is afraid to travel. He is only comfortable in his own home, where everything is familiar to him. My mother likes to travel, but my father doesn’t want to.

As she spoke about her father, some of the men turned to listen.

Same with my parents, Ronny said. They have become absolutely reluctant to leave home in their old age. They have become so timid!

Yes! cried Beena. It is hard to imagine that these same people once traveled far from their villages to the city and then to America, Canada, and England to study, and to the Middle East for work! My parents come up with all sorts of excuses not to visit, saying, how will they get their medicine here, and what if they have to see a doctor. Her mouth twisted in frustration as she complained about her parents’ refusal to visit her. Since she had left home five years ago, they had not come once to see how she lived in America.

Don’t you have a brother? What is he doing now? Ronny asked.

My brother Lenin left for Bangladesh after completing his PhD. Ei to. It has been almost a year.

Really? What is he doing in Bangladesh?

Teaching. At North South.

What was his degree in?

Math.

Uh-ha! Bolo ki? Ronny cried, shaking his head and slapping his thigh. Why didn’t you tell me? He could have got such lucrative positions at companies here! I could have got him a job!

Is Sir still driving that beat up Volkswagen? someone asked.

Yes. Beena nodded.

Sir was an eccentric. Ronny laughed, shaking his head. He used to teach a concept by telling a story. The bell would ring, but he would hold us back telling his story, and we would sit there listening. Nobody wanted to leave. He creased his eyes and parted his lips, as if recalling a fond memory. Then, in the manner of someone remembering a thing he had to do, he stirred and sprang to action. Beena, this is our friend Khaled. My batchmate. He gestured at the sofa across from him, behind Beena.

We met. Salma introduced us, Beena said, blushing as she turned around to face Khaled.

Hello again. Khaled flashed her a grin. She was impressed with his even white teeth. How is Sir?

He’s well, she answered, speaking quickly and nervously.

His face was of a rich brown complexion, smooth and clean shaved, with a square jaw. Unlike his friends, who had acquired thick waists and broad chests, he was still lean and light. His hair was parted to the side like the others, but unlike them, he still had a full head of thick, black hair.

I heard you are getting your PhD in May? he said. Congratulations. What are your plans after that?

I applied for a few jobs, but I didn’t get any offers. I will return to Bangladesh. Beena shrugged her shoulders.

Don’t go! You would be crazy to give up this life in the US! Get a job here. Stay! He spoke innocently, in a high, guileless voice, gazing at her with a frank expression.

I have to! she stammered. My F-1 visa will run out after my studies end.

Any company would snatch you up like anything! Anyone would hire a doctorate! They would be lucky to have someone of your caliber. He spoke warmly and kindly, with an earnestness that suggested that he would go out this minute to find a way to keep her in America.

Going back is not an option. Believe me, he went on passionately. You invested so much in your education! You are so smart. Why would you go back? What would you do if you went back? That country is a mess. There are strikes every day. When we were students at the engineering university, we faced session jots that delayed our graduation by two years. You must have faced it too, at Dhaka University, during your honors and masters? Take my word for it. Going back is not an option.

I think Bangladesh is very livable, Beena argued back in a lively voice. Our parents’ generation fought for liberation in 1971 so that we could have a country to call our own.

That may be the case, but look how happy you are here, Khaled said. He had shifted his position on the sofa so that he was very close now, giving her his full attention, with his back to the men. When she spoke, he listened intensely. There was a sincerity and earnestness in his manner that she found disarming.

Look at all the things you get here. Freedom to do anything you want. Recognition for your merit. You can’t get any of those things in Bangladesh. Perhaps sensing that she was wearying of this line of argument, he asked suddenly, Did you like your subject?

Yes.

What was it?

English Literature.

And…what is that about? he asked, furrowing his eyebrows. His face was tense with admiration.

She laughed. We study literature. Novels. Poetry. But also important essays that mark the ideas of a period. We discuss what novels are about, what they want to talk about. I like it very much.

There you go, he said, smiling. He leaned back in his chair in a relaxed manner, with his feet planted apart on the white carpet, placing his hands on top of his knees. His fingers were long and tapered like an artist’s, with the gathering of brown skin around the joints, ending in clear, moon-shaped nails. My hats off to you. Reading and writing in English is a useful skill to get ahead in any career. As for me, even if you beat me with a stick, not one word would come out! He laughed.

You are right. I loved my time at an American university studying the subject I love, she admitted warmly.

They had been sitting in a cocoon, away from the others.

Now Shona’s husband Bulbul called to Khaled. What is it like working at H–? How did you get such a good job?

Beena’s eyes flew open. She parted her lips to ask Khaled to repeat the name of the company, to confirm that she had heard right.

Aarre, Bhai, what can I say? They wouldn’t let me be! Khaled cried, slapping his thigh. His handsome face split into a big smile. This headhunter kept calling me for months, asking me to meet with him just one time, to hear him out. Finally, we met at a Starbucks. He made me this incredible offer that I couldn’t refuse. That’s their way. They make an offer that is impossible to refuse, great salary and benefits.

And they paid for your relocation? Ronny asked in a thick and greedy voice.

Yes. They said they would pay to ship everything I own.

Looking around the room, Beena saw the naked look of admiration mixed with jealousy in all the men’s faces.

One of them prodded Ronny in his chest. How much does a bachelor own anyway?

True. Khaled laughed. I said as much to them. I said, unfortunately I am a bachelor and I have nothing to ship.

The room exploded in laughter. Ronny looked at Beena, arched his eyebrows, and smiled. Only Beena remained silent, stunned by the name of Khaled’s company. That name, uttered so callously, carried her back to the developing news over the past few months about a possible war with Iraq, and further back, to her childhood in Mosul.

The men were still congratulating Khaled on his new job. He was smiling pleasantly, answering a barrage of questions.

Next step is international assignment, am I right? Bulbul said.

Hopefully, Khaled said with a boyish grin.

The men’s conversation turned to their companies. The promotion someone had received. How long it had taken each of them to get a Green Card. Two men were discussing buying stocks.

I have a bit of money to invest. Should I buy shares in M–?

No, man, don’t invest there. His companion shook his head. Didn’t you see how their shares fell recently? Oil is where you should invest now. Especially if there is a war.

As if on cue, Ronny reached for the remote control on the coffee table and switched on the large-screen TV in front of him. A newscaster spoke loudly about the impending expiration of the deadline for Saddam Hussein to flee the country. The camera swept over aerial footage of Iraq as someone discussed war tactics. Beena twisted her head to face the screen.

Khaled turned back to Beena. Sorry. You were saying?

She shook her head. Nothing.

Oh, come on! You were saying something. Say it!

She smiled tightly. Her eyes were wet with tears. You work at H–? How do you feel working for a company like that?

What do you mean? Khaled stared at her blankly.

"Do you know that the US is about to invade Iraq? How can you be so pleased about working at a company that is involved with the war? A lot of people are