by Samra Zafar
When Aisha eventually began to cry with hunger, I was relieved. It was a chance to stop smiling, ease my aching breasts and be upstairs alone for a while. I bundled Aisha up and took the elevator to the condo.
I was still nursing Aisha when Ahmed burst through the door. His temper was raging. How, he demanded, could I disappear without anyone’s permission? “You are so rude! So shameless! You should have fed her before the party!” His voice was louder than I had ever heard it before.
“But I did, Ahmed,” I protested. “You know that she feeds every two hours. And I don’t want to leak and stain my clothes.”
“You have breast pads!” He was still yelling. “You should have made do and stayed. Amma is so embarrassed and insulted that her guests are all downstairs and you and the baby are up here.”
This felt like a bad dream. Nothing I did was right. I began to cry.
“Stop being such a drama queen,” Ahmed snapped. “Just give her a bottle.”
“But the doctor said to only do that in emergencies.”
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I knew I should have stopped talking. Ahmed’s face twisted in anger. His words came out like gunfire: “What kind of useless woman are you that you can’t take care of a baby?”
I had no response to give.
Aisha had finished nursing. There was nothing to do but wipe my face with trembling hands and follow Ahmed downstairs. Back in the party room, I forced myself to stay steady, to smile, to chat cheerfully to anyone who spoke to me. The only thing more unforgivable than disappearing from the party, I knew, was letting anyone know that I wasn’t blissfully happy.
* * *
During the days of preparation leading up to my wedding, I had seen my marriage as a huge, rushing river that was about to sweep me away. Once Ahmed and I actually started our life together, I came to see that river differently. It seemed to have turned into a gentle stream, and I had been happy to float along, curious to see where it might take me. With the arrival of Ahmed’s parents, the river changed once more. In those three eternal months, I had been dragged under again and again. First Ahmed’s new behaviour left me gasping for air. But now, after his outbursts with my mother, his rage at the hospital nurse and the explosion at the party, I felt in danger of drowning. While he had not laid a hand on me, I was truly afraid. My father and mother had fought, and certainly my father had said and done unkind, even violent, things. But Ahmed’s fits of temper seemed to be something else altogether—a loss of control that wiped out who he was or had been, that turned him into someone truly threatening. I began to feel relieved when he walked out the door to work.
As the weeks passed, I stayed trapped in the condo with Amma and Abba. Ahmed had stopped talking to me and, fearful that any exchange might turn fiery, I started to communicate with him through his mother. Mostly I asked for things Aisha needed. I couldn’t shop for anything myself: I was told it would be unseemly for me to be seen walking out on my own. And Amma and Abba weren’t interested in accompanying me. If we needed something, like diapers, I would ask Amma to ask Ahmed to pick them up on his way home.
My weekly forays past the condo doors—my Monday English literature classes—were also a thing of the past. I had finished that course before Aisha was born, and as I was breastfeeding, there would be no more courses that required attendance in a public place. Instead, I ordered the next calculus course through a distance-learning centre.
When the package came in the mail, I felt a shiver of excitement. The simple act of starting a new course, even if taking care of Aisha meant that the work would have to be done slowly, made me feel lighter.
In my room, talking to my parents on the phone shortly after the package arrived, I mentioned the new course. They were encouraging.
“Yes, yes,” my father said. “Don’t give up on your education.”
My mother was a little more circumspect. “Yes,” she said, “that’s good. But remember, you are now in a country where you can go back to school at any point. Right now, you need time to care for yourself and your daughter. You can always take more than one course when things settle down a bit.”
When I got off the phone, Amma wanted to know what we had talked about. When I told her, she looked thoughtful. Then she said, “Do you know what the problem is, Samra? The problem is that you have not been raised properly. It’s my job to train you now. To undo all of the damage.”
I felt my stomach begin to churn.
“If you were in medical school and we made you stop, well, that might be unjust. But you don’t even have high school yet. If we stop your education now, there’s nothing wrong with that because you haven’t achieved anything. We gave you the opportunity to marry early, to get to the real purpose of a woman’s life—without having to waste so many years on this school nonsense. You should be grateful to us that we’ve saved you all this time. So just forget about school.”
I sat down on my bed, unable to speak. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The whole reason I had agreed to get married in the first place was to further my education. The very terms of our agreement were being denied. I knew by now that what Fatima had told my mom wasn’t true: Amma hadn’t gone to school even after she was married. But I hadn’t imagined that all the promises Ahmed’s family had made were pure fabrications.
I looked up at Amma for some hint of hesitation or accommodation. But her expression was smug and satisfied. She had duped me, and we both knew it. We also both knew that no one in the family would contradict her.
I stared at Amma’s broad back as it disappeared into the hallway. I was numb with the shock, too stunned even to cry. And then my stupor gave way to a volley of emotions: defeat, helplessness, panic. I was only nineteen, but already doors were closing.
I remembered the nightmare I had had two years ago in Ruwais—and the late-night phone call to Ahmed that had set my mind at rest. Had he been lying then? Was he lying when he brought me all those university brochures? And what about when he told me we’d find a way to continue my education once I got pregnant?
* * *
I had scarcely come to grips with Amma’s announcement when another flew at me.
I was in the kitchen one afternoon, helping Amma prepare dinner. As I chopped onions at the counter, she began to talk about looking for a bigger house. I didn’t want to ask what this meant for Ahmed and me.
“It’s so sad,” she said wistfully. “All my other children have gone away. My daughters have married and gone. And my sons. So far away. They have all abandoned me.”
I continued to chop the onions, but I felt the ground shift under my feet.
“But as I always tell my friends, at least I know that Ahmed will not leave me. He wouldn’t do that to me. He will always live with his Amma.”
I stared at the lifting and lowering knife before me, hardly aware that I was the one moving it. Amma had said it with such conviction that I knew it was the truth.
Amma didn’t want to leave me in any doubt about our living arrangements. The next night at dinner, she raised the topic again. “Ahmed, you would never move out, would you?” she asked sweetly.
There was a brief silence. Ahmed’s head was bent over his plate. “Of course not, Amma,” he finally said in a quiet voice. “How could I ever leave you?”
I looked over at him, hoping against hope—but he would not meet my eyes. There could be no doubt now. Everything Ahmed had ever said to me about our future together had turned out to be untrue.
* * *
As the humid days of July settled on us and my shock started to dull, I tried to let myself be buoyed by positive things. Aisha was, I now realize, a wonderfully easy baby. At six weeks, she was sleeping through the night. Freed from constant sleep deprivation, I could enjoy playing with her. Bath time was soothing for both of us, and I adored the peaceful spell as she drifted off to sleep in my arms after nursing. And with each passing week, I began to feel more confident in my ability to take care of her and give h
er what she needed.
The summer also provided renewed opportunities to get out of the house. Family friends issued a steady stream of invitations to backyard barbecues. Sitting on lawn chairs in the warm evening air was a welcome break from the claustrophobic condo, with its ever-present TV. Sometimes, however, the hot weather got too much, and we would be herded indoors. This always presented me with a dilemma. There was no mixing of the sexes at these parties, so I had two choices. Did I go into the living room, where all the “aunties” congregated? Here women decades older than I was chatted about people I didn’t know or boasted about their latest designer handbags and shoes. Or did I go into the basement with the “girls,” who were the daughters of all the aunties? The girls were much closer to my age, but most were unmarried and childless. Their conversation about summer days spent at amusement parks or plans for university in the fall filled me with envy—and put me on my guard. Once, shortly before Ahmed’s parents arrived in the country, I had discussed my own plans for university with one of these girls. Word had gotten back to Amma.
She had been annoyed. “It’s not good to discuss your personal life with others. People talk. Don’t give them anything to talk about.”
So I tried to spend most of these visits playing with Aisha and lingering as long as I could outside, with the grass under my feet and the sun on my face.
Early July also saw us on the road—the first time I had been out of the city since Amma and Abba arrived. One of Ahmed’s brothers had started a master’s degree in Indianapolis. Amma and Abba rented a minivan, and Amma packed a cooler of snacks for the nine-hour drive. The morning of our departure, everyone piled into the van—Ahmed behind the driver’s wheel, his father beside him, Amma in the middle seat, and me in the very back with Aisha. I knew that Amma and Abba didn’t like music in the car, so there would be no radio. I had brought a Walkman and headphones. As soon as Ahmed spied me in the rear-view mirror, he barked, “Take those off, Samra. It’s rude not to be listening to the conversation.”
I couldn’t imagine what his parents might be saying that I hadn’t heard a million times already. But I did what I was told, keeping quiet, looking out the window as the seemingly endless miles of asphalt flew under our wheels.
After a few hours, Aisha began to wiggle and squirm, her mouth opening and closing like a baby bird’s. Knowing that any request of Ahmed was likely to be met with annoyance, I tried to postpone the inevitable. I gave the baby a pacifier, but she would have none of it. I got a bottle of formula out of the cooler and tried to warm it between my hands. But Aisha moved her little head every time I tried to get the nipple between her lips. It wasn’t what she wanted. I suspected she was wet too, and even if she hadn’t been hungry, she needed to be taken out of her car seat. Finally, I gathered up my courage and told Ahmed that we needed to stop so I could feed and change her.
Ahmed refused. It was going to be a long enough journey. He wasn’t about to make it any longer.
A needle of panic pricked my heart. Aisha started to wail.
Amma and Abba both turned in their seats to glare at me. By now, both Aisha and I were desperate. I attempted to distract her with a rattle, tried to squeeze droplets of formula out of the bottle into her twisting mouth. Fighting to keep my voice from shaking, I hummed lullabies to her and kissed her on the head—anything I could think of that might calm her down. But she continued to convulse with sobs, her little brow beaded in sweat.
“Why is she crying so much?” snapped Ahmed.
“I told you,” I whispered helplessly. My heart was hammering. “She’s hungry. I’m trying to settle her, but she’s hungry.”
“What kind of useless bitch can’t keep her own baby quiet?” Ahmed spat out.
By now both Aisha and I were in tears. And we were both long overdue for her feeding. As Ahmed drove on, his foot heavy on the gas pedal, I tried not to think about her empty stomach and my engorged breasts.
Eventually, I heard tires squeal and felt the car swerve hard into the right lane and then onto an exit ramp. Ahmed was pulling into a roadside gas station. But he was clearly in a rage.
“Do what you have to do—quickly!” he said as he threw the car into park.
I got Aisha out of the car seat and scuttled into the gas station washroom. I went into a stall, lowered the toilet lid and sat down. Aisha latched on and began to nurse with desperate energy. When she finally slowed down and took a breath, I pulled her away. It had been six hours since she last ate instead of the usual two, but I couldn’t risk staying any longer. Holding her in one arm, I squeezed milk from my other breast into the toilet. Then I closed my blouse and ran back, sweating and breathless, to the car.
By the time we pulled into the parking lot of the apartment building, I had to pull my dupatta across my chest to cover my soaking-wet blouse and my excruciatingly swollen breasts.
For the next few days, Ahmed and his brother went off on their own more often than not, while I accompanied Amma and Abba to shopping malls or helped Amma cook. In the tiny one-bedroom apartment, I would retreat to the bedroom or the bathroom to nurse Aisha, but when we were out no one wanted to wait while I disappeared. So I brought bottles of formula. After a bit of struggle, Aisha submitted to this new routine. But I was worried. I knew that once she got used to the bottle, she might not want to nurse. The doctor and nurses at the hospital had impressed on me the health benefits of breast milk for babies, insisting that a minimum of six months was necessary. I tried to nurse Aisha as often as I could when we were back at the apartment, but as each day passed she became less and less interested. By the fourth or fifth day, I could tell I wasn’t producing as much milk.
By the time we got into the van to go back to Mississauga at the end of the week, Aisha’s breastfeeding was over. It made the trip home less traumatic, but I was bereft that she would no longer get the nutritional advantages of nursing, and that this wonderful connection with my baby had been needlessly severed.
I also felt a stab of loss at the thought that now I had no excuse to retreat to my bedroom several times a day.
* * *
The week in Indianapolis, sleeping on the living-room floor, traipsing through shopping malls, sitting in the hot, stifling apartment with Ahmed and his family, had been a trial—save for one all-too-brief afternoon. On our last day, Ahmed asked me if there was anything else to see in the city, as I had been reading up on it on the Internet. I mentioned a military museum. That caught his attention, but no one else in the family was interested. To my surprise and delight, Amma said she would take care of Aisha if we wanted to go. I was up and out the door before anyone could think twice about it.
I don’t remember a thing about the museum.
What I do remember is Ahmed’s transformation once we were out on our own. As he walked through the museum displays his stride was leisurely, his shoulders loose, his whole demeanour relaxed and natural. For the first time in months, I saw his easy smile and heard his round laugh as he chatted and cracked jokes. Outside the museum, he waved down another tourist to ask if he would take our picture. Posing for the camera, Ahmed put his arm around me. I leaned into him, happy to feel the warmth of his body and his tender touch. Just like old times. My smile for the camera was wide and genuine. After the museum, we stopped off for a hamburger, lingering happily over the last few French fries before making our way back to the van. If there can be moments like these, I thought, Ahmed is not gone for good.
* * *
The house hunting began in earnest on our return to Mississauga. In August, Ahmed, Amma and Abba made an offer on a house and put the condo up for sale. And then there was another, truly exciting change.
Ahmed’s brother Shahid and his wife, Angela, were expecting a baby. In September, Amma flew to join them for the birth and to help with the baby. She would be gone for three months.
As Amma’s huge suitcase rolled out the door, a fresh breeze blew through the condo.
One of the first things I did was rearr
ange the kitchen cupboards. It was a small act of defiance, but in an odd way it made my world feel a little bigger. And I began a new routine of my own. In the afternoons, I would put Aisha into her car seat and set her on the kitchen floor before putting on the radio. As music filled the kitchen, I began to cook our evening meal, moving in time to the music, revelling in the freedom to work without constant critiques. I cooked only the kind of food I enjoyed, avoiding the too-spicy dishes that were Amma’s staples. I searched online for recipes to try, and I allowed myself to enjoy the praise Ahmed and his father offered about the meals I set out on the table.
Abba was now working as a security guard, which meant that he often had evening or night shifts. On those days, Ahmed, Aisha and I would sit at the dinner table together—like a happy family. Ahmed started talking to me again, and we began to plan our evening meals together, discussing which new dishes we would like to try and the ingredients Ahmed would need to pick up on his way home from work. He started joining me in the kitchen each evening to make dinner.
Even when Abba was at home, he often disappeared into his room to pray, giving Ahmed and I stretches of quiet time together. I still tiptoed around Abba, but angry, frightening Ahmed faded from my mind. I didn’t let myself dwell on the hurtful things he had said or the callous way he had treated me.
Now we had this precious time alone, intimacy returned to our relationship. Ahmed had had a car accident in August, and the rear-end collision had hurt his back. With Amma away, he seemed happy to let me give him massages or rub analgesic cream into his muscles. While he didn’t move back into the bedroom, I often brought him water in the night, and he would visit me, too. It wasn’t quite the same as our early months of marriage, but it felt like a fairy tale compared to the previous weeks.
