The Submission - Amy Waldman [50]
Bravery, she thought as she walked, wasn’t about strength alone. It required opportunity. Wars came rarely. She reminded herself of this whenever she had questioned whether Inam was as courageous as her father. Her husband had been born at a different, less momentous time. It was hard, in daily life, to find the right cause. She had learned this for herself.
Once she was married and settled in Kensington, Asma had decided she wanted to work. The request, unconventional, left Inam hesitant; even, in his mild way, apprehensive. It was also implausible: she had only a high-school education and spoke little English. But he approached a Bengali pharmacist on Church Avenue, a Hindu named Sanjeev, whose daughter-helper had just left for college, as he told everyone who came through the door. Sanjeev agreed to give Asma a try. He was safe: a respected man whose wife and sister-in-law also worked in the pharmacy. Asma would be his wife’s assistant, helping to count out the pills for prescriptions. The work was dreary but relaxing, and she took great pride in her precision. Sanjeev’s wife scoured her work for mistakes until she saw that Asma made none. Counting did not preclude absorbing the activity of the pharmacy. For a time, she knew more about the neighborhood’s ailments than Mrs. Mahmoud did. Sanjeev was like a doctor, she would tell Inam at night. Everyone came to him for advice, not just Bangladeshis but the black people, the Spanish people.
Sanjeev’s only fault, from what she saw, was his stinginess. He would almost never extend credit to anyone, except for a few Hindus he knew. People would need a prescription before their paycheck or government check came in, but Sanjeev demanded cash up front. One day she decided to say something. Her father had often loaned money to people for no interest. He would not have approved of Sanjeev, she was sure.
“Sanjeev-uncle,” she said, trying to be very polite, “I don’t understand why you won’t give more credit. You know these people; I know these people. You know where they live.”
He looked at her as if she were his daughter talking back to him, then said lightly, “If you think they’re so worthy, why don’t you extend them credit?” Sanjeev knew full well she had no money to lend. Her hands shook as she counted out pills for the rest of the day. That afternoon she thanked him for employing her and never returned. Inam, a little appalled at her impetuousness, went to make peace with Sanjeev. Asma could never be convinced to do the same.
Back at the store, she showed Mr. Chowdhury the hole in the rice bag.
“This is an old trick,” he said gruffly. “You took out a cup, then you come say it leaked and want a whole new bag. It won’t work. I know all the tricks.”
Almost speechless with anger, she dragged him out to the street and showed him the rice, which feet and wind and fowl were already scattering. They walked together for half a block, until he asked, “This trail goes all the way to your building?”
She nodded vigorously, relieved he understood.
“You fool!” he said. “You dreamer. How did you not notice sooner?” He berated her at length, accusing her of reading newspapers while she walked instead of watching her rice.
“I didn’t think it would run away,” she said, which angered him more.
Mr. Chowdhury refused to give her a new bag, and she stewed all the way home, wishing Inam were alive to fight for her, although in truth she didn’t know if he would have. “Maybe you tore the bag when you put it in the shopping cart,” he might have said, not to suggest she was in the wrong but rather that anyone could have