A Good Wife

by Samra Zafar

There was something shattering about this public censure. Ahmed had been speaking in Urdu, assuming he couldn’t be understood by those around us. But there was no mistaking the look on his face or the quiet violence in his voice. It was both an upbraiding and a humiliation. Here, out in the open, Ahmed was telling the rest of the world that I was his property. If I had had any doubt about what the hijab meant to him, I now knew the truth of it.

  * * *

  By the time Aisha reached her first birthday, I was talking to my parents less and less often. Ahmed no longer provided me with calling cards, and we certainly couldn’t afford long-distance calls without them. But even when my parents called me, I got off the phone quickly. I had begun to find their hopeful chatter irritating. I knew they hadn’t imagined that my marriage would be so bleak. They had no idea Amma expected us to live with her. And they wouldn’t have believed Ahmed’s cold and cruel transformation. But their naïveté had helped lead me here. And now they could do nothing for me.

  As I thought about all the freedom and encouragement I was given growing up, I started to feel increasingly bitter. Not towards Ahmed and his family but towards my own parents.

  The endless talks of school and careers. My father cheering on our street cricket games, signing me up for squash lessons, driving me to the tennis club. My parents waving goodbye to me as I wheeled off on my bike or got on a bus bound for the Abu Dhabi shopping malls. What good was all of that if it made the business of “real life” so torturous? Why lead my sisters and me to believe we could make our own decisions and follow our own path when, in the end, we would have to leave our colourful little home and enter a tight, grey, box-like world? My parents had created a shimmery veil that obscured the truth of a woman’s life. Yet that truth had been revealed every time my father shoved my mother or shut down a disagreement with one of his bullying tirades. Why did I think things would be different for us? I began to resent my parents for setting me up, for failing to help me understand how I would have to behave and think in order to survive.

  Once, Amma had caught me watching cricket on TV. “You like cricket?” she asked. When I told her how much I loved the game, she clicked her tongue in disapproval. “As soon as I have rid you of all of these hobbies, I will have done the job of making you a proper woman.”

  Maybe Amma was right. Maybe life would be better for me now if I hadn’t been allowed so many “hobbies.”

  * * *

  And so I let myself disappear into days that came and went with the relentless monotony of rain. Occasionally there would be a small break. Perhaps it was a simple smile and thank you from Ahmed when I brought him his breakfast. Or a question from him about Aisha’s day. Or he might show up late at night after his parents had gone to bed, holding a Burger King bag out to me, saying, “I thought you might be a bit hungry.” At those times, a happy calmness washed over me. But then, like a clap of thunder or a flash of lightning, some sharp and unpredictable interaction would have my heart pounding. Sometimes it was just a slamming door or a volley of hurtful words. Sometimes it was more.

  One of those lightning flashes came out of what looked for all the world like blue skies. My mother had told me that her sister’s son was planning to move to Canada. I was excited at the prospect of family close by. When my cousin called to say that he had finally arrived, I was ecstatic. We talked for well over an hour, catching up on my family’s exploits back in Pakistan and the UAE. Near the end of the conversation, he asked if Ahmed and I would like to come for dinner. I told him I would talk to my husband and get back to him.

  But when I hung up the receiver, I could see Ahmed sulking at the other end of the room. “That was so disrespectful,” he said. “Your cousin should have spoken to me first. Asked permission. You’re my wife.”

  I didn’t have the courage to mention the dinner invitation.

  The next day, when my mother called, I told her about the phone call and my exchange with Ahmed. I was upset that this new opportunity for family and companionship had gotten off to such a bad start.

  “Don’t worry,” said my mother. “I will call my nephew and explain. He can smooth things over with Ahmed.”

  The next time the phone rang, it was my cousin asking to talk to Ahmed. But when Ahmed said goodbye, he was angrier than before.

  “So you thought you’d get him to phone me to ask again, did you?” He was standing very close to me. He punched two of his fingers into the centre of my forehead.

  “No,” I protested, “I just talked to my mom.”

  He continued to stab my forehead with his fingers. “You show me no respect,” he spat. “We aren’t going to your damn cousin’s for dinner.” With that he lowered his hand and pushed me onto the sofa before charging out of the house.

  The next time my mother called, I told her to tell my cousin never to call us again.

  Years later I discovered that my cousin, worried about me, had driven over to the house to speak with Ahmed. He had been put into the living room, but when it became clear that no one—especially not me—would be coming to talk with him, he left. I had no idea that he’d been there, and I wouldn’t have any contact with him for another eight years.

  * * *

  Other tempests compounded my desperation and had me returning to dark, sometimes even suicidal, thoughts.

  One afternoon, I was helping Amma get ready to host a dinner party. She was at the counter, working on a curry; Abba was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.

  “I need the cilantro, Samra,” she said to me. “It’s on the bottom shelf of the fridge.”

  I opened the refrigerator and squatted down to look for it. I could see the green leaves peeking up behind a large Tupperware container of Amma’s gulab jamun—small fried sweets that sat soaking in a sugary syrup. I pulled the box from the shelf. But I had grabbed the lip of the lid to do so, assuming that it was on tight. As I lifted, the bottom of the container pulled away from the top, spilling the sweets onto my lap and sending a great wave of syrup all over me and the kitchen floor.

  Amma let out a shriek. “What did you do? That was the dessert for everyone!”

  “This is what she is learning from her parents,” Abba fumed. “She talks to them and learns all these tricks to annoy us!”

  Under Amma and Abba’s shouts, I could hear the terrifying sound of running footsteps. Within seconds, Ahmed was in the room. As I sat hunched on the floor in a puddle of syrup, he turned to his parents, his voice savage.

  “Why don’t you grab her by her braid and give her a few slaps? Then maybe she’d learn some sense.”

  My eyes flicked up to Amma. She had never said a word of protest about any of Ahmed’s name-calling or pushing. But would she actually join in?

  Her face was hard as she looked at the mess on the floor and her ruined dessert. For a moment, I was truly afraid. But then I heard her sigh. “Just get up and go upstairs. Clean yourself up for the party,” she said in disgust. “The guests will be here soon.”

  With relief, I scooped the sweets back into the container and wiped the syrup from the floor and fridge before escaping to the bathroom.

  Perhaps Amma had remembered her own suffering at the hands of her mother-in-law, or perhaps there was just a line she was not willing to cross. But as I stood in the shower, trying to shampoo the last bits of sugar out of my hair, I didn’t feel any comfort in that. How could I, knowing what Ahmed wanted done to me?

  * * *

  Amma may have refused to put her hands on me, but as my third autumn in Canada bore down on me I felt close to breaking. It was a grey evening. Amma and Abba had already eaten dinner and disappeared into their room to watch television. I was waiting for Ahmed to come home from work so we could eat together. (As Amma had told me many times, it was inappropriate for a woman to eat before her husband.)

  As I put some small pieces of banana on Aisha’s high-chair tray, I heard Ahmed’s footsteps thudding from the entrance towards the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway and mov
ed past me without saying a word. After patting Aisha’s dark curls, he seated himself at the kitchen table.

  I took covered containers from the fridge and began to put together our plates. I set Ahmed’s dinner on the table and sat down beside him. My whole body felt tight with apprehension. I needed to ask him to spend a little more money that we didn’t have.

  “Ahmed,” I said, hesitating slightly. If only I could leave the house to buy groceries and other necessities, instead of being trapped inside all day with my in-laws. This daily ritual of begging for the things we needed was humiliating. “We are out of diapers.”

  Ahmed didn’t say anything for a moment, but then his fork cracked down on the plate. “We can’t afford diapers,” he snapped. There was a pause. And then an explosion: “You think I have money to throw around? You’re such a useless whore! Why haven’t you toilet-trained her already?”

  I had expected him to grumble or perhaps even to ignore my request, but his anger knocked me back like a blast of hot air.

  “She’s only a year and a half.”

  But it was no use defending myself, I knew. I had done it. I had provoked him, and every word I said next would be met with another flare of rage. I needed to get away. I stood up.

  “Sit down, bitch!” Ahmed roared. “Finish eating.”

  “I can’t,” I said. Suddenly, there was not enough air in the room.

  Ahmed reached out and grabbed my wrist. He yanked me closer to him and began twisting my arm. His grip was so tight it felt as if he were trying to take my hand right off. Then, with his other hand, he reached for his glass. A wave of ice water hit my face.

  I gasped. And then I heard, “Mommy!”

  I looked over at Aisha, strapped into her high chair. Her arms were lifted into the air, reaching out to me. Her pink lips were trembling, her eyes filling with tears. Ahmed’s grip loosened, and I broke away.

  Behind me, the tiled floor was wet from the water Ahmed had thrown. As I stepped back, my feet slid out from under me, and I crashed to the floor. As I scrambled up, I saw the phone lying on the kitchen table. I grabbed it and ran upstairs to the bathroom.

  Slamming the door behind me and quickly locking it, I sank onto the edge of the bathtub. My heart was pounding and my back was screaming in pain. I looked at the phone in my trembling hand and tapped 9-1-1. But before I hit the talk button I stopped, my finger hovering in mid-air.

  What would happen if I made that call? Where could I go? How could I support myself ? Amma had told me that in Canada the government would not let someone with no money keep her child. If I left, I would lose my baby. Now my whole body was shaking, my cheeks slick with tears.

  The door handle rattled. Then Ahmed’s voice was coming from the other side. “Please open the door, Samra.” His tone was calm now, gentle.

  “Go away,” I choked out. “Just go away.”

  Ahmed continued a soft patter, his smooth words sliding through the cracks in the door frame. “Come on, Samra. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  I sat and sat. And then in the break between Ahmed’s supplications, I heard Aisha’s tiny cries. I gulped in air, trying to calm myself, trying to prepare myself.

  Then I stood up and opened the door. I walked past Ahmed and went down to the kitchen. Taking Aisha into my arms, I returned to the stairs. In my room, I put her on the bed and curled up beside her. I held on to my child, letting my tears fall into her soft hair, waiting for the escape of sleep.

  The next morning I woke in agony. The muscles in my back were locked in a fiery knot; on my wrist was a bracelet of dark bruises. Downstairs in the kitchen, Ahmed took in my wincing movements but said nothing. We both knew that he would not take me to a doctor. I might be able to provide an innocuous explanation for an injured back, but the purple shadow above my wrist and the sadness in my eyes would tell the real story.

  This seemed to chasten Ahmed. In the days that followed, he refrained from calling me names or berating me, and I kept my bruises hidden under my clothes. He occasionally smiled at me and made small talk. Then, about three days after my fall, he suggested that he, Aisha and I spend the afternoon at the park. This was the first time the three of us had gone out without Amma and Abba. We left without telling his parents what we were doing.

  Aisha had started to walk during the summer, so now we could watch her toddle through the park, cooing at the pigeons and squirrels that darted before her. We stood together pushing her on the swing, and Ahmed held her in his lap as we rode the see-saw up and down. Finally, the sun getting low in the sky, Ahmed smiled warmly at me and suggested we go for pizza before returning to the house. My eyes widened in surprise. Since Amma had arrived, we never went out to eat. It would be rude, Ahmed said, not to eat her cooking.

  By the time we got home, I felt so cheerful and light that I almost floated through the door. But Amma was clearly upset. “Where did you go?” She cast a wounded look at Ahmed. She didn’t actually care where we’d gone—just that we had gone without her.

  Ahmed looked down guiltily and muttered about the park and the pizza.

  Amma’s grumpiness did nothing to dampen my mood. When my parents called the next day, I was bubbling with renewed hope.

  I’d come to suspect that some of Ahmed’s anger might be caused by guilt and regret. During one of his explosive rants he had said that marrying me was the biggest mistake of his life. Of course, after all his other hurtful comments, I took this to mean that I was a great disappointment to him. And while he may have wanted to make me feel that way, another idea eventually took hold. Perhaps it was marriage itself that was so problematic for him. He was stuck between his wife and his mother. He knew that he couldn’t make us both happy, so he had chosen his mother. But perhaps he mourned what he had lost by doing so, just as much as I did.

  Now, with this small gesture, this afternoon at the park, he had for the first time risked his mother’s displeasure to spend time with me. I couldn’t stop myself from inflating the occasion into a portent of great significance. This was certainly the initial step towards a new phase in our marriage, I thought. And given that Ahmed had finally got another good, full-time job, everything was bound to get easier.

  My parents were happy. Like me, they were unrepentant optimists.

  * * *

  Of course, the harmony did not last. The second winter in the house was as cold and grey and lonely as the first. Ahmed’s anger roared back repeatedly, chilling me with the knowledge that each explosion now held the possibility of more than verbal barbs. And the more frightened I became, the more ridiculously happy I was whenever Ahmed talked to me in a calm voice, or smiled in my presence, or laughed at something our daughter was doing.

  Aisha was a delightful distraction for all of us. She was a happy, energetic toddler, with a burgeoning vocabulary and a calm, easy-going disposition. Ahmed doted on her.

  Parents often tell you that their greatest joy is their children. For me, during these years, that was true. But it was also true that Aisha was my only joy, the only way I found real happiness. As she got older, I spent hours and hours playing her favourite game of make-believe—“Dora the Explorer.” Aisha was of course Dora. And I would be her sidekick, Boots, following her every lead. Sometimes, I’d take the role of her nemesis, Swiper, stealing things out of her backpack until she stopped me by saying “Swiper, no swiping” the requisite three times. Sometimes, she’d instruct me to be “The Grumpy Old Troll,” a role I took to with relish. At birthday celebrations and dinner parties, I could play the cheerful wife, smiling and laughing, by watching Aisha or thinking about one of our wonderful Dora adventures. And even on the most difficult days, Aisha gave me a reason to keep going. But the spring that she turned two, she gave me something else. My first small taste of freedom.

  * * *

  As the days began to warm again, I could feel my “hobbies” begging to be indulged. At the very least, I wanted to be outside, to walk in the sunshine, to be among people. At one of Amma’s
dinner parties, another new mother had mentioned to me that she was going to a parent–child drop-in centre with her baby. The program offered storytime, singing, crafts for the kids and companionship for the moms. I came home and phoned Ontario Early Years. There was a drop-in centre an easy walk from our house.

  I had mentioned the idea to Ahmed and got no response, so I pushed it to the back of my mind. But after a week or two of relative tranquility in the house, I decided to try again. This time, much to my surprise, Ahmed told me to ask Amma and Abba to make sure they were okay with the idea.

  A few mornings later, over breakfast, I mustered the courage to speak to them. “Amma, I was thinking of taking Aisha to a parent–child drop-in program, like the one Beenish goes to.”

  Amma was at the sink; Abba was at the table, having his morning meal—digestive biscuits and tea.

  “It would be good for her to hear English.” We spoke mostly Urdu in the house. I thought that if I suggested the program had some practical value, Amma and Abba might be more receptive.

  Amma turned from the sink and swatted the idea away. “She will learn English anyway. There’s no need to worry about that now.”

  I wasn’t going to give up yet. “But it would be good for her to be around other children and to get out of the house.” And then before I could stop myself, “It would be good for me, too.”

  Amma raised an eyebrow.

  This was maddening. I wasn’t asking for much. Why did I need to ask them at all? My irritation made me incautious. “I feel like I’m in jail sometimes!” I blurted out.

  Abba exhaled loudly. “You get food and clothes and everything you could want,” he blustered. “Everyone should be so lucky to be in this kind of jail.”

  I ran my hand down the front of my faded and tired shalwar kameez. Most of my clothes were now hand-me-downs from Amma.

  I wanted to say that you get food and clothes in jail, too, but what you don’t get is freedom. But I knew what kind of response I’d get to that. Freedom for a woman was never a good thing as far Amma, Abba and their friends were concerned. Women with freedom were “shameless”: immoral and promiscuous.