I first met Mr Babu somewhere between the warm glow and the hangover. That was why it seemed normal that he was sat in the hospital at 2am with no reason for being there, his small sidekick next to him, white robe draped about his waist and shoulder. We exchanged a few words in broken English that seemed to make sense – the normality guaranteed by the alcohol again – and I wandered off to bed.
He called the next day, tracing Mark and me to our room by quizzing the cleaners and security guards. Mr Babu is a self-proclaimed spiritual man and university student. His grandfather was a spiritual man – as far I understand it a mystic who could confer blessings from Allah. He made a great deal of money doing this and the family became very influential in Mogh Bazaar. If you need his help you can find him in Mr Babu’s front room, buried under a large, ornate tent somewhere between the coffee table and the fire, although you may have to fight your way through the crowd that worship and bang drums there late into the night. Mr Babu still talks to his grandfather – asks him for advice – just like he talks to me, even though he is a long time dead. Should I marry this woman? Should I vote for the Awami League? Should I have the final slice of pizza?
Now that we’ve met him, we are Mr Babu’s best friends. As best friends do, he calls at unusual hours in person and over the phone and as often as possible. His six sisters do the same; we are part of the family. If we choose to ignore his knock he assumes that we are in some kind of trouble. His hammering becomes more persistent, perhaps trying to wake us from the diabetic comas he imagines that we’ve fallen into.
He called a few days, while we were on our way home from a day trip:
‘Mr Rorie, I miss you. I miss you, Mr Rorie. I miss you very much, Mr Rorie. I miss you 80% Mr Rorie, and I miss Mr Mark 20%.’
‘Thank you Babu. Goodnight.’
