Bashir Molla's greatest quality is that he never gets angry.

When something that would make others furious happens, he shows a subdued, distant expression across his eyes and face and says in a soft voice, "All right, all right."

No - it is by virtue of this forbearance that he became union council chairman three times in a row. He built a permanent house. The land he owned ten years ago has tripled in size today. Recently he bought a power tiller. People come from far away to see, on the veranda, the machine wrapped in polythene. Bashir Molla still hasn't put that machine to work in the fields. All this, he believes, came about because of his "doesn't-anger" nature, his mild way of speaking. At least Bashir Molla himself thinks so.

This morning his mood is as overcast as the sky in the month of Srabon. Of course no one would tell by looking at his face. To an onlooker it seems he is enjoying the leisure of a rain-damp morning. Tea has been mentioned inside the house. The tea has not yet arrived. This house runs like a town house. There is tea twice a day. The newspaper comes. It's late sometimes by two days, but it comes regularly.

A Srabon morning.

Heavy, twisting rains started two days ago and have not yet stopped. The sky is murky. It seems the rain will not let up before noon.

Bashir Molla is slumped in an easy chair on the veranda of the Bengali-style room. His mind is scattered for many reasons. Robberies are happening nearby. They could happen at his house, too. So far it hasn't - which is a mystery. He does, however, own a double-barreled gun. To demonstrate the gun's existence, he fired three shots the morning before yesterday, claiming he was out bird-hunting. He isn't sure whether that was the right thing to do. It could backfire. The gun might tempt thieves.

Aside from the fear of thieves, another worry has overwhelmed him: on a whim last year he married again. The girl is young. She won't come around. He himself is forty-five. At that age, trying to win the affection of a seventeen-year-old - the poses one must strike to make a young heart forget - is hard. Still he tries; it isn't working. The girl refuses to be won.

The newspaper lies across Bashir Molla's knees, though he is not reading it. He does not like to read newspapers. He looks at the pictures. He does not always read the captions under the pictures either. He does not like to read. Bashir Molla stares lazily at a photograph. In the picture Mr. Ershad has his hand on an old man's shoulder and seems to be saying something. There will be cluster villages, the headline says. Each president does things his own way. Zia - that gentleman - crossed the channel. This one is making cluster villages. Who knows what the next person will do.

President sahib.

Bashir Molla lifted his eyes from the paper. Everyone here addresses him as "President sahib" because of his position as union council chairman. He likes that. Today it doesn't please him; before him stands Keramat. Keramat has been his household help since he was ten. Now he is grown. Thirty, thirty-five years old. A foolish sort. These kinds of people make good help; they do as they are told without question. Bashir Molla felt irritated to see Keramat because he should be working in the fields now, not loitering around in front of him.

Aren't you going to say anything, Keramat?

Say one thing, boy.

Say it.

Keramat bowed his head and, in a nearly inaudible voice, said, "I'm grown now. If you give me a marriage, I'll set up a household. I want to have my own home."

Bashir Molla asked in surprise, "You want to marry?"

Keramat lowered his voice further and said, "I'm getting old. I want a home. The Prophet also spoke of marriage at the right age; it is in Hadith and the Quran."

You don't have anyone you like?

No clarifying questions needed.

Translated Title

Waiting

"No. You look after things...."

"All right, that's settled. I'll arrange it. I'll build you a house. I'll give you some land. I haven't taken any salary - it's all saved up. I'll sort it out."

"All right."

"Now get back to work. Don't hang around."

"All right."

"You don't need to keep asking me about marriage. I'll remember. I'll make arrangements when it's convenient. Marriage isn't something to rush."

"All right. Is the night watch properly arranged? Be very careful. Tie up a gang - sticks, swords - keep watch."

"All right."

Over the next three years many misfortunes fell on Bashir Molla. He got entangled in a land dispute case and had to pay a lot at the police station. His second wife bore another stillborn child and became ill herself. She had to be taken to Dhaka for treatment for a long time. Once his house was robbed. Worse, despite his extremely mild nature, he lost two consecutive elections: the school committee and the municipality. In such circumstances, his temper did not remain steady. So when Keramat again raised the issue of marriage, Bashir Molla, angered, asked, "Why did you go mad enough to talk of marriage now? How can you bring this up in our state?"

Keramat said, "Three years have passed, President sahib."

"Don't you see my condition? Are you an outsider? Aren't you one of the household? Let me settle things first, then I'll make arrangements."

"All right."

"You'll need a house. Where will you bring a wife from? Let me get things settled, then I'll put land in your name. Then the marriage will happen; there's no hurry."

"All right."

"Do what you wish privately. You don't have to worry about arranging your marriage. Why am I here? Let me get things stable."

Bashir Molla got himself stable within five years. Quite well. He became president of the school committee. He won the upazila election. He built a house in Royail bazar. He brought electricity to the village house. But now he did not stay much in the village; he lived in Royail bazar. His peace of mind returned. His second wife, after giving birth to another stillborn child, fully came around. One evening in the month of Poush, Bashir Molla went to the village home for a visit. He would stay three days. These days people do not stay long at the village house - city affairs demand attention. Moreover, he had made some enemies; they might act at any time, and there are fewer opportunities for that in town.

As soon as he set foot in the house he met Keramat. He said in surprise, "You're looking old, Keramat."

Keramat bowed his head, as if growing old were a crime. Bashir Molla said, "No, this time I must give you your marriage - I'll arrange it this Srabon. Srabon is good for weddings."

Keramat said faintly, "All right."

"You build a house. That place on the north side of Puni - take bamboo from the bush. Let the house be ready first."

"All right."

"It's better to marry a little older; then love grows properly. Build the house. Thatch the roof from the top. Take money for the thatch. You've got money owed to you."

"All right."

"I'll see to it this Srabon."

"All right."

That Srabon nothing happened. Nor the next. Bashir Molla fell ill - a kidney disease. He went to Dhaka with his whole family for treatment.

He told Keramat he would finish the marriage arrangements once he got better. "I've seen several girls. I'll choose one whose character and temperament are good."

"Marriage shouldn't be hasty. Before a hundred words, it's not right to marry. It's for life."

Keramat said softly, "It's better if the girl is healthy. There's housework."

"Of course. Of course. A sickly village wife won't do. There are healthy girls too. Don't worry about that. Why am I here if not to help?"

Keramat didn't worry. He tended the fruit saplings he had planted with his own hands so that not one would die. After marriage he would have children; fruit trees would be needed. In the market things cost so much - you can't buy fruit for the children.

Keramat waited for the marriage. He didn't know his age had passed fifty-five. Now his hair was all white. He could not see well with his left eye. His body lacked former strength. He could no longer do much work. Still, out of habit he spent his days in the fields. In the evenings he liked to come home and think pleasantly about the wife and sons and daughters who would someday come.