2. Sidor

Sidor was born the night of the cyclone Sidor, that awful night when hundreds died, and from that, he got his name.

His family is a sweet one, a round, pretty, slant-eyed mother, a short, crooked-nosed father, a gentle big brother, and a tiny little sister with earrings. The three children all have curly hair, and they all have their mother’s eyes. On her, the slanted-eyes have become matronly and unremarkable. On the big brother, they look kittenish and wistful. On the little sister, they are sharply pixie. On Sidor, they are meditative and lurking.

They are all sweet as I said, even the big brother Sojib. I do mean sweet. Most high school boys are anything but sweet. They are rowdy and moody and rangy and insecure. Sojib, however, is happiest if everyone around him is happy.

Once Sojib and I were drinking tea together. He was watching, his head tilted and his eyes squinting. I knew something was on his mind.

“Missy, if I say something will you mind?”

“Of course not,” I said, preparing myself to refuse him a flashlight or money to go to a mafil, but somehow you don’t mind with Sojib.

“Missy… will you marry me?”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He looked surprised for a minute and then chuckled too.

“Don’t mind,” I said as gently as possible, “But… no. You are my student.”

The clouds on his brow cleared, and we laughed together. “Just friends,” we agreed.

Then he looked worried again. “Missy, don’t you have any boyfriend? …none at all? Why not?”

“Boys don’t really like me.” I confided.

“Oh!” he said as though he finally understood, which wasn’t the right thing to say at all, “But aren’t you ever going to married at all?”

“I don’t know.”

“But who does?” he said, his forehead creasing.

“God.”

That tickled him. “God knows?” Giggling, he dropped the subject.

Sweet… that was the word.

… and then there was Sidor.

Sidor was impolite. He wanted to be friends because big friends gave cookies to little friends, but he didn’t know how. He scattered when approached and hid when called, elusive as a shadow and twice as sneaky. Being given to few words, he ran instead.  He had impressive velocity, built for motion, but when he wasn’t running, he sauntered along … very slowly. He lurked and watched me out of the corner of one slanty eye.

I had been tramping along the brick path one night when I heard a scss-scss-scss behind. I looked around, but not fast enough, and that was when I lost my veil.

Sidor was flying back the way he had come, a white piece of cloth streaming from his hand.

“Sidor!” I yelled. Young women who are missionaries are not supposed to yell, but there are circumstances and then there are emergencies.

Sidor stopped as suddenly as he had run, turned and ambled back towards me. Those eyes were glinting like the sun on a watch face. He was laughing at me.

“Sidor,” I said in real distress. “Give me my veil back. You’re shaming me.” I said “shame” because it is a powerful word in Bangladesh. Bangladeshis understand shame.

Bangladeshis are also terribly curious about hair. They cannot figure out why I keep mine covered all the time, and they are offended that I will not exhibit it to them. Sometimes they slip up behind us and try to sneak a peek or feel our hair to see how “big” it is. Sidor had detected a sore spot and was prepared to exploit it.

Some women were standing along the path, laughing at me. “What’s the big deal?” they said to each other. “Why should she care?”

“Give it back now.” I said, advancing.

Sidor approached me, wary as a bird; then he dashed in, threw the veil at me, and loped off.

This happened several times until I had perfected my sideways gait. Alert to hear that soft, soft sound of Sidor running, several times I spun around just as he started his sprint.

Every time, mid-stride his pace would break, and again, he would begin to amble or just stand there, his head cocked. Shoulders slumping, he would turn and walk away, hands in his pockets …till next time.

It got so that he could never get me while I was on the brick path, in spite of all the banana trees and green foliage that lined the road, perfect for hiding.

Then one evening just as it was beginning to darken and the  light was blue and green, I was crossing the field between the brick path and the Union building, going home. The skyline was still orange, and the sounds of evening, distant horns from the village and shouts of cricket games still rose from the Union yard. There were four children hanging on each finger of mine, and neighbor women calling out to me from the patches of dal. I heard someone laughing and turned.

Sidor was right behind me, and there was no time. In the moment before he sprang, I saw the triumph in his eyes.

“No, no…” I said, frantically.

He leaped. My veil was gone. Sidor was off across the fields, swifter than a bat in the twilight.

All the women flew up from the dhal patches, squawking at Sidor like so many disturbed birds. His mother was among them.

“Come back!” they scolded. “Sidor, you listen right now.”

He was circling back, closing in. At last, he threw the veil as hard as he could. It fell limply on a dal plant two feet away, and he was gone, last seen running like mad.