The Accidental Wife

by Simi K. Rao

  Naina tucked her camera away in her satchel along with the several packs of gum she’d bought from a little boy on the street. Then fixing the black hijab around her head, she started on the long trek back to the hotel where her tiny group was located with several other journalists. She had spent most of the morning taking aerial shots of the city from a vantage point she’d found yesterday during her visit to the refugee camps. She had come prepared to spend most of the day there, hoping to capture the harsh landscape in the soft warm tones of dusk, but her intentions were interrupted by a familiar cramp in the lower reaches of her abdomen signaling the onset of her monthly cycle.

  Thankful she had chosen to wear a long, shapeless dark shirt and loose black pants, she paused as another spasm gripped her, much more painful than she was used to. Or was she perceiving it to be so due to the state she was in? Feeling the disappointment that she wasn’t pregnant, which had been her only hope for consolation.

  She fought back a sob. Naina, stop, it’s too late now. You have to learn to live with it!

  It had been hard, very hard, the pain so sharp, almost visceral in its intensity. And she had struggled with it, with her need to go back. Rihaan might come to detest her after reading the callous note she left for him. But that maybe just as well. She’d hate it if his career was ruined because of her. It was not just a job for him, it was a gift he had, a wonderful blessing that’d benefit so many. It’d be a crying shame for him to lose it.

  Yes, she had been a wimp for leaving without meeting him and telling him the lie to his face. Because she couldn’t, just the sight of him would have made her weak and broken her resolve. She would have forgotten everything she wished to say. She loved him so much it hurt. That was the reason why she had run away. She couldn’t bear to stay in the same town without wanting to see him every day. Her heart, her body would crave it constantly.

  Their love making, her last memory of him—a parting shot. Every act as fresh as yesterday and so beautiful. The sorrow she felt was immense. Almost every night she had cried herself to sleep trying to fill the deep bottomless pit that had formed inside her. Yet, it seemed like he had accepted their separation without reservations. She hadn’t heard a word from him.

  Her only distraction and consolation had been her work, into which she plunged with gusto.

  Their small group of eight journalists had flown to London and then to Turkey, where they had split into teams of two and three before dispersing in various directions. She, along with her friend, Adamma, and a male journalist, Adam (Maria had chosen to stay behind), had proceeded to Kabul. Why she had chosen to come to this place, Naina wasn’t exactly sure. But she recalled a certain curiosity after hearing stories from her father when she was very young (when he was still fond of her) about kabuliwallahs—hefty, tall and imposing tradesmen of a very genial temperament who were particularly fond of children though were rarely seen around anymore. Ever since, she had nourished hopes of seeing a real live kabuliwallah one day and a better opportunity couldn’t have presented itself.

  Naina paused at a street corner to take some pictures of a shop selling bales of colorful cloth and yarn. It was packed with haggling customers, mostly female. The landscape here was similar to her homeland yet different. There was a definite sense of déjà vu, especially when she saw the chaos on the city streets, as traffic of all kinds vied for space on the narrow roadways and in the permanent din created by the honking and the loud blare of afghan songs. One had to be on constant watch or run the risk of being mowed down.

  Also familiar were the low brown treeless hills and the mud-walled huts, but not the uniform-like burqas that almost all the women wore.

  After her arrival, Naina was inevitably drawn toward her favorite subject—children. And what she saw appalled her. Because the kids not only had to fend with the squalor and abominable living conditions that prevailed in the refugee camps as well as the poor tenements, but also had to work and forage daily for food. And these were not just street children but those with parents, too. They were out washing cars, combing the garbage for paper and rags, scrubbing dishes, selling trinkets and gum in the streets, and the girls suffered the hardest as always.

  But it’s not as if the parents don’t care, Naina thought, they do. They are just too bogged down by poverty, by war, by misogynistic pressures and fears of retaliation and lack of education.

  She was trying hard to get the adults, especially the women, to open up but success was slow because all foreigners were eyed with suspicion. However the children were like children everywhere—innocent, trusting, carefree and with dreams of a bright future.

  She adjusted her black headscarf. It had taken awhile to get used to, but now she knew how to keep it in place without fiddling with it. And even though her appearance and coloring was very similar to the natives and should have offered her a sense of anonymity, she was plagued by a constant feeling of insecurity, of being discovered and punished for something she hadn’t done. Of how she used to feel as a child, being picked on and admonished for anything and everything. And when she dared to defend herself, she would be declared too haazir jawab and impudent and be soundly reprimanded. “No boy from a good family will be ready to marry a girl like you.” Naina broke into a hysterical laugh at the memory which prompted quite a few heads to turn her way.

  Finally, having safely made it back to the hotel, she ducked into a tiny room that served as their makeshift nerve center. Adam, who was sitting at his desk, looked up and smiled. He had the most startling pair of blue eyes. He was going through the mail. “Were you out visiting Zeenat again? Seems like you’ve found a permanent fan in her.”

  Naina smiled. Zeenat was a little girl who’d found a special place in Naina’s heart. An orphan at seven, having lost her parents and brothers to war, she lived with her uncle, his wife and six cousins in a one room tenement in one of the most squalid sections of the city. As an unwanted child, besides dealing with what most children generally had to, she faced further abuse and the danger of being bartered as a child bride to repay unpaid debts of her parents’. Yet, despite a horrendous future, the young girl displayed a bright outlook.

  “Things will get better,” she told Naina. She also said she wanted to get educated and become a nurse, or a doctor or a teacher. “Will you take me with you when you leave? I want to be like you when I grow up.”

  Naina would sadly reply that she wasn’t sure, as more likely than not she wasn’t returning to the United States. The idea of seeing Rihaan again simply tore at her heart.

  Maybe I’ll go home to India and find a way to get Zeenat there somehow, she thought, quickly wiping her dripping nose with the back of her hand.

  Naina cleared her throat. “She has chicken pox and today is her last day of quarantine. She’s thrilled because she’s going to get a haircut and will soon look like a boy and confuse her aunt!”

  Adam laughed. “I’d surely like to see her.” And when Naina turned to leave he stopped her, pointing toward the mail. “I haven’t sorted through the entire stack but there’s something there for you.”

  “I wasn’t expecting anything…” She stopped at the door, holding her breath. “Who is it from?”

  “A Rihaan Mehta?”

  She moved to the table in an instant and snatched the letter from his grasp. She stared at the envelope. It was true. It was from Rihaan.

  Adam looked at her curiously.

  Quivering with emotion, Naina whispered a soft thank you and turned away. She wanted to read it in private and savor it, whatever he had written, words of hate or words of love—it didn’t matter. At least he hadn’t forgotten about her. She brought the envelope to her mouth and kissed it but imagined it was his lips she was kissing.

  She hurried across the narrow courtyard to the flight of stairs that led to her room on the second floor. A young boy shot out suddenly from nowhere and stood blocking her way.

&nbs
p; “Excuse me…” she said, then stared at the child for several moments. “Zeenat! Is that you?”

  Her young friend grinned cheekily. “Would you have made out I wasn’t a boy, if you hadn’t seen me before?”

  Naina smiled, and shook her head. The young girl continued to chatter as she followed her into her room. Naina laid her precious cargo down carefully on her bed and turned to her. She had never seen Zeenat talk so animatedly.

  “I want to test it. I want to go outside and roam around and see how everybody reacts, especially my cousins and I want you to come with me.”

  “But Zeenat,” Naina said, “I want to rest a little and I also have a letter from home to read.”

  “You can do that later. I can’t be away too long before I’m discovered,” Zeenat insisted, pulling at Naina’s hand so she reluctantly agreed.

  ***

  The bazaar was densely packed as evening set in and the sun fled from the sky. Naina tried to keep an eye on her charge while taking care to skip over and walk around the several muddy puddles of water that had gathered after the short spell of rains that afternoon. There were rows upon rows of bustling shops selling anything and everything from fresh food to cheap imported furniture. It vaguely reminded her of Delhi’s Chandni Chowk though she hardly saw any women around.

  Zeenat suddenly squealed and tugged at Naina’s long kurta. She pointed down the street at a tall, thin boy. “There’s Amir, my cousin. Follow me!”

  Naina had to hurry to keep track of the child as she ran ahead. And while doing so, she looked curiously at the young man whom Zeenat had called her cousin. He was standing outside a leather goods store and looked very ill. His eyes were shifty, he had a fevered appearance and as she drew closer she saw his face shining with sweat which was unusual for the arid climate. There was also an unusual bulge on his chest.

  A sudden terrible dread filled her. A horrific premonition.

  After barely a moment’s hesitation, she rushed ahead, pushing through the crowd indiscriminately, shouting at people to disperse and get out of the way.

  “Zeenat… Stop!” Naina screamed, reaching out and grabbing the back of the little girl’s shirt. She then pulled her around, and shoved her in the opposite direction.

  The last thing Naina remembered was the perplexed look on the child’s face before a deafening blast rang out and shook the air. Then darkness closed in.

  A Victim of War

  Emergency Care Center for Victims of War, Kabul

  “The impact of the blast was so severe that she was lifted and thrown back several feet…she has sustained severe head trauma…blast lung, deep penetrating wounds to the abdomen, compartment syndrome of the left lower extremity, burns over 15% of her body… She has undergone multiple surgeries and will likely need several more in the coming few days to weeks…any questions?” The Afghani surgeon turned and looked at Rihaan who stood at his side, listening, as he read out the laundry list of injuries from the clipboard, without so much as batting an eye.

  Rihaan simply continued to stare at the bed. He was in a state of shock. The only thing he could see was his beautiful wife lying confined to a hospital bed in a faraway remote land, unconscious and utterly helpless, swathed in bandages, with tubes traversing in and out of every cavity and orifice, her vibrant young body damaged and disfigured, fighting for her life with every ounce of her battered spirit.

  All of a sudden, Rihaan sprang into action. Diving down to the side of the bed, he gently gathered his wife’s broken body in his arms, then bending forward, kissed her on the edge of her swollen lips, and whispered into her ear, “I’m here, Naina. Your Rihaan is here.” After which he collapsed, breaking down into violent sobs that raked his entire frame.

  The surgeon slipped out, closing the door quietly behind him.

  ***

  Over the following several days, Rihaan spent every possible moment with Naina, fearing that if he let her out of his sight, she might vanish forever. The severely critical nature of her condition gradually sunk in, yet he didn’t allow it to pitch him into an overwhelming depression. He dealt with it the only way he knew how, by fighting the inertia through intellectualization. He took it upon himself to oversee every aspect of her care, reviewing the tests and standing by during all procedures and surgeries. They couldn’t throw him out, he was a doctor after all.

  He actively engaged with the team of physicians, questioning and challenging their decisions, but he found them at no fault. They were doing a commendable job under the toughest of circumstances. Indeed, it kindled in him a deep sense of admiration, which conflicted with the immense rage he felt for all those who he thought responsible for committing his beautiful wife to her present condition. She, who bore nothing but kindness in her heart, didn’t deserve the pain, nor did any of the other countless innocents out there.

  But when he saw Naina making steady progress, his spirits soared. She was responding remarkably well. Her wounds were healing, her vital organs recovering appropriately and she was requiring minimal life support. Yet she remained on the ventilator under deep sedation, and this was a source of constant irritation to him. He worried about the obvious complications but even more, he was impatient for her to wake up, so he could make her aware of his presence. He wanted to assure her that she wasn’t alone and that she was safe. That there was no reason to fear or be afraid. “Everything is going to be fine,” he wanted to say.

  But most of all, he wanted her to know that he loved her. It had been so long and he couldn’t wait to say the words to her.

  He fired his concerns at her neurosurgeon, an elderly Brit, who listened to him patiently wearing a fatherly smile on his face. In his long career he had seen many smart young docs like Rihaan, who transformed into petulant teenagers when it came to one of their own on the sickbed, though this brilliant young neurosurgeon—Rihaan’s recent paper had created quite a furor in the community—had to be credited for exhibiting extraordinary restraint under these particularly trying circumstances. And given his singular devotion to his wife, his demands were legitimate.

  “Son,” the surgeon said, “given the amount of trauma she has suffered to her brain, it is our general approach to keep patients like her under sedation for some amount of time, to allow the brain to heal and to prevent further injury. A few more days and she’ll be ready. I’m sure you understand.”

  Rihaan nodded, agreeing reluctantly. Of course he understood. Perhaps he was in denial, unwilling to accept how serious Naina’s injuries truly were, even though all her scans and tests he had personally reviewed several times over told him so. He was losing his objectivity and that wasn’t good. He had to toughen up if he wanted the best for her.

  Two days later, news of another horrendous terrorist attack rocked the city. Rihaan, despite his existing anxieties, rushed to the scene to volunteer with the already overburdened medical personnel.

  When he returned, thoroughly drained, he was met by Naina’s trauma surgeon, the same who had acquainted him with her situation, upon his arrival.

  He addressed him in his heavily accented monotone. “I’m sorry, but we have to transfer your wife out of this hospital.”

  Rihaan was shocked. “But why?”

  “As you can see, this place is very small. We don’t have enough beds to handle all the cases. Your wife’s condition is stable.”

  “What do you mean ‘stable’? She needs specialized care, at least a couple more surgeries, and she still remains heavily tranquilized.”

  The man’s lips curved into a trace of a smile that was perhaps meant to be reassuring, “All of that can be handled elsewhere. Tomorrow she’s going to the best private hospital in Kabul. Sorry, but my hands are tied,” he said stepping out of the room and closing the door on further protests.

  Rihaan sank into a chair beside Naina’s bed. Nothing could be more terrible. He had tolerated everything so far; the ou
tdated equipment, slipshod hygiene, even the poorly trained nursing staff, as there weren’t other options. Her progress had filled him with optimism and driven some of the cynicism away. But now they wanted to throw her out, cast her away in her fragile state, send her to some place else where there was no assurance of proper care, where she could possibly lose all the gains she had made and forgo any chance at being well again.

  “I’m not going to let it happen, if I can help it Naina. You can be sure of that my love,” he said, reaching over to squeeze her limp hand.

  Hope and Faith

  Rihaan tracked down the surgeon in his office and tried to reason with him, even beseeching him to reconsider his decision. But when the man appeared unmoved, he resorted to the next best thing he knew. He threatened to sue him along with the entire medical facility for negligence.

  The Afghan laughed to Rihaan’s bemusement. “This is not America. No one sues anyone here, because no one has the time or the money. We are all busy fighting to stay alive.” He wrote something down on a prescription pad and handed it over to Rihaan. “I understand how you feel. Here, go and check out this place. I’m sorry, but it’s the best I can do.”

  Rihaan thrust the paper in his pocket and rushed from the building in urgent need for some fresh air, but also to check his impulse to punch the doc on his jaw. He was practically seizing with anger.

  That will be of no benefit to Naina, rather it is bound to be counterproductive. Under no circumstance whatsoever do I want her to pay for my poor judgment. I have to curb my frustrations and try to think clearly, he brooded as he passed through the lobby. He had always found it filled to the brim, with people in varying degrees of grief and mourning. As he tried to push his way through a wall of cops blocking the entrance, his gaze fell on a television monitor that hung close to the door. It was tuned to Al Jazeera news. Images of the recent bomb blast flashed across the screen, followed by those of American soldiers who were soon to be withdrawn from the area. One of them, upon being interviewed, said that he couldn’t wait to get home.