Split

by Taslima Nasrin

  Meanwhile, Abakash was becoming intolerable. Unable to stand even the slightest of comments, harsh or otherwise, I was overwhelmed by an urge to move out and live elsewhere on my own terms. After Yasmin’s departure there was no one in the house I could talk to and neither was my beloved Suhrid there. The house seemed mostly desolate, as if not a soul was around. Mother’s world was restricted to the kitchen and the pir’s tomb. As for Father, except perhaps my older brother there was no place for anyone else in his world. After taking over the duties of the Arogya Niketan, Dada did indeed grow closer to Father.

  One night there was a burglary at the Arogya Niketan and both of them suspected Saraf mama was behind it. Tutu mama had once taken money from Dada and failed to return it and Dada used to often complain about it to Mother, just as a pretext to further abuse her family in front of her. In a way he was remarkably similar to Father—just as he never liked anyone from Nani’s house neither did Dada. Blood, as they say, always tells. My Hasem mama was the chairperson of the Aqua Union Parisad. Despite having been a brave muktijoddha he could never advance further than the council chairmanship simply because he was not a great public speaker. Since he lacked oratorical skill, he could not articulate the promises they required of him, even the blatantly false ones candidates make to ask for votes before elections. He used to run a small hotel where his friends would gather around to discuss politics. The shop was his only source of income with which he took care of his family of six, comprising his wife and five daughters, all crammed into their single-room home. Despite such adversities he sent all his daughters to school. Suman, his only son, was in jail with some other boys of his age awaiting trial on a murder charge. Much of Hasem mama’s earnings used to be spent on trying to lodge a case in the high court to prove his son’s innocence. He did not wish to arrange for the money through unfair means, which he could have done easily if he had wished to.

  Among all my uncles it was only Hasem mama who had any interest in reading my books. Whenever we met he would tell me, ‘Do you have books coming out again? Give me one!’ One day Hasem mama borrowed 500 taka from me. He did not want to, but the legal case was becoming impossibly expensive. Mother did not take the news well, that he had borrowed money from his own niece. Perhaps she was apprehensive that if my father and brother were to find out all hell would break loose. She loved Hasem mama dearly, especially because of his principles. He used to be the sort of person who did not spare his own family when it came to his moral code. Why should such a person borrow money from his own niece? Mother would have rather had him starve if it came to that than ask anyone for money. Despite how she tried to defend her family, she was also embarrassed by them. Mother was very alone, she was the only person in her small world. She was summoned only in case of an accident in the house, or if Father wanted to complain about someone, or if he wished to extract information about one of her children. Around this time Father’s new preoccupation was grilling her to find out about my movements, my thoughts, what I was doing and whether I was going to take a decision regarding my future. He wanted to know if I was going to keep living my life like I was doing, shuttling between Dhaka and Mymensingh without any cares or restrictions. Unfortunately, Mother knew too little to disclose anything of my eventual plans to him.

  He used to come home and, knowing that I was within earshot, pretend as if he was speaking to Mother. ‘It’s becoming impossible to show my face around the city. Even today, this one man comes up to me and asks, your daughter is a doctor, right? Has she gotten married? Is your son-in-law a doctor too? Most people already know that she was married once. Why did she marry that alcoholic, skirt-chasing rascal without finding out anything about him first? Now who is going to marry her? All these men will simply have fun with her, take her around. None of them will marry her. I can’t go out in front of people because of her; they ask me why I am not getting my daughter married even though she is of age. They want to know! What am I supposed to tell them? I have nothing to say so I hang my head in shame. How can I tell them that my daughter married of her own choice, the guy has left her and now she goes around with other men! Do they not know? Of course they do! And they talk too. Wouldn’t it have been better if she had married some doctor? She could have already had a couple of children and be settled by now.’ Mother would nod in agreement. Yes, I should have married a doctor. Munni, who was my age, was already married, had children and was busy with her family like a good little girl, she would add. This bit about the good Munni usually served as a teachable moment; of course, there was no dearth of those. Whichever direction she looked, Mother could only see girls my age or even younger than me married and happy with their lot. Everyone except me, that is.

  Eventually, things came to a head. Every waking moment they were battering me. Who called? Who wrote that letter to you? Who is that who came to meet you? How do you know him? If you know him well then why are you not married to him yet! I got so annoyed that I informed everyone that I was going to spend the rest of my life alone and never get married. In response Father issued a stern warning—I was welcome to never marry since there were many women who did not get married. However, I would have to stop all interactions with my male friends, although my female friends were allowed. Not willing to stop there he declared a state of emergency, adding that the first male friend to set foot into the house was going to be forced to marry me. He had beaten Yasmin out of the house. He did not physically beat me but all the lashes were on my soul, forcing me to double over in pain. There was no Yasmin nearby for me to go out with to clear my head, to simply hail a rickshaw and roam around the city, go to a dance or a poetry recital, or a musical event somewhere. I did not feel like going anywhere alone and the Shokal Kabita Parisad too had mostly fallen apart since her departure. Every day I was being reminded in new ways that I was the immoral idiot of the house.

  No one at home had ever liked R and they had initially been happy after I left him and returned home. When my status as a divorcee became my most prominent signifier, they could no longer tolerate my husbandless life. Obviously, I was not attractive enough without a cage around me; what if some vicious predator somewhere gobbled me up? Or so they feared, I guess. Why was I uninterested in the FCPS exam? Why was I hell-bent on destroying all my future prospects? So irritated was Father with these anxieties that he did not hesitate to say the most uncouth things to me. It was becoming clearer to me every day that the only way to prove a woman was capable of living without a husband or a family was to earn something significant or renounce everything in life. Earn an extra qualification or find an extra area of expertise, or renounce good food, material comforts and live like a widow. Renounce the world and become a nun. Or commit suicide and be returned to dust. Perhaps I could become unbelievably successful in something, reach the top of my field and be promoted to a top post. Or pass the FCPS!

  In the end it was behind the veil of the FCPS that I finally resolved to hide the shame of my husbandless life. In order to make my unnatural life more bearable I had to showcase incredible talent. Ageing without a husband and children was a sin and the only way to find absolution was to work like an idiot and earn a huge degree. Being unmarried was an ugly festering wound that I had to cover up with a colourful degree-shaped shroud. Being myself was not going to be enough to wash away my sins or earn me forgiveness. Other women did not need this extra qualification; they were not called names without it. But since I had walked out on my husband I had to put in extra effort just to be judged at par with other women. And in the end did it truly make a difference? Otherwise why did no one ever show the same concern for a girl working her body to death at her middle-school dropout husband’s house and why was I subjected to such scrutiny despite being a qualified and practising doctor?

  ~

  The family planning office, always a place of disarray, was in dire straits. Medicines were being pilfered, money was being stolen, the male employees were in charge of everything and the pretty female employees alwa
ys had to be careful about wayward hands. While trying to speak out against such rampant violations I realized mine was the only voice crying out aloud. I was losing and the male overseers were waiting for an opportunity to get back at me. The only time I was happy was during the ligation or tubectomy camps organized in far-off villages. When I was immersed in work my domestic woes would temporarily vanish. When there were no camps to attend the only thing to do was to go to the office every day and just sit there—to see how everyone was doing, what they were saying—while swatting at a few flies occasionally. On one such day RH, the boss and deputy director, DD for short, turned up at the tin hut on Kalibari Road for an inspection while out on a pleasure stroll in the evening, his lips red with the paan in his mouth and shades covering his eyes. Mujibar Rehman was there in his office, Ambiya in his amorous embrace. Everyone else had left for the day, including Saidul Islam. The DD found a hundred reasons that justified Saidul’s absence but found absolutely none that explained mine and he lodged a complaint against me with the health department head office in Dhaka. Not satisfied with doing so once, he lodged the complaint repeatedly. He could not wait to teach me a lesson for turning down his amorous advances on a previous occasion. He used to often ask me to visit his Aqua office and I had gone one day. He had welcomed me in, sat me down, rung for the waiter and asked, ‘What do you want? Tea with milk, or without?’

  ‘Without.’

  He glanced at the waiter. ‘One with, one without.’ The waiter turned around and left.

  ‘Why do you have red tea? It destroys skin colour. You women, you have to think about your skin colour, don’t you!’ Rows of teeth were on display, like thirty-two dried seeds stuck on a big pumpkin.

  ‘It’s a habit. I don’t think about skin colour that much.’

  ‘Of course, beautiful women don’t need to worry so much either.’ Another round of laughter.

  Wishing to change the topic I deliberately added, ‘You asked me to come. Is there something you need me to do, sir?’

  ‘What work would I have? Is there any work at all in family planning?’ More laughter.

  ‘Then? Is there something else you need?’

  ‘Come, sit down. Let’s chat for a while. My wife and kids have gone to Dhaka for a few days. In a way you are happier. You can enjoy your life. One can’t enjoy life with a family in tow.’

  I lowered my eyes and concentrated on my tea.

  ‘Are you very shy?’

  I raised my eyes again. ‘Not really.’

  ‘If you are so shy, imagine what other women will be like.’

  My eyes were on the wall, fixed on the pictures hanging on it. Not much was visible in the pictures from so far but I kept my eyes fixed on them as if I had to memorize the details immediately.

  ‘Now tell me something about yourself. You don’t want to talk at all, it seems! Your life is very interesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. My life is fairly simple . . .’

  ‘What are you saying! I have heard from people that you have a very interesting life. You have a devil-may-care attitude. It’s a good thing though.’ The teeth, like dried pumpkin seeds, flashed with amusement.

  ‘Sir, is there going to be a camp soon?’ I knew there was a camp scheduled for the following Wednesday but I still asked.

  ‘Camp? Yes, there is one! You can come with me in my car for the next camp. Reach here in the morning. We can go together.’

  ‘It’s not really a problem for me, sir . . .’

  ‘You went with Dr Saidul on his motorcycle that one time . . . [laughter] . . . a jeep is much better. Much more comfortable.’

  I did not respond.

  ‘So, tell me. What are your plans in life?’

  ‘I don’t have any plans as such.’

  ‘No plans! You don’t want to get married?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What are you saying! You are going to let your youth go to waste?’

  ‘Why should it go to waste? I am writing in my free time. It’s good this way.’

  The pumpkin had begun to roll in mirth. ‘Oh, of course, you are a poet! An intellectual.’ Raucous laughter.

  That day, he had made me sit in front of him for even longer, speaking nonsense and laughing unnecessarily. Every time I had tried making an excuse to leave he made me sit down. Finally, I had lied to him about an urgent engagement in order to escape. On my way out, he had added, ‘Come here day after tomorrow in the afternoon. I will get my work done early and be free. My wife will be away for seven more days. There’s no problem.’ Not just the day after, I had never gone back to his office again. Justifiably he could not tolerate my audacity. Neither could he bear the fact that I was instigating the other female employees to follow suit and not respond to his lewd proposals. So he was obsessed with forcing me to leave Mymensingh and was cooking up all sorts of troubles to that end. The DD’s opposition at office, Father at home—a veritable assault of these combined forces drove me to such a state that I seriously began contemplating suicide.

  Deciding to put all my hurt and grievances aside, I visited Yasmin one day. Seeing her I was reminded of those restless, lively days of long ago, the ones we could never go back to again. I wanted to grab her and run away, from the house and from our lives, but she was so inextricably connected to her domesticity, had made so many compromises, that it was impossible to go anywhere with her. ‘Let’s go somewhere, like we used to. Let’s talk, and laugh, like we used to.’ My words fell on deaf ears. The dutiful housewife had definitively drawn the blinds on her old life; the life she had chosen might not have been the one she had dreamt about but she did not wish to be subject to any more social censure.

  It was enough that one sister’s irresponsible lifestyle was subject to so much disapproval, perhaps it was only right that the other sister should have to make amends with her own life. So she was fine being confined within the four walls of her husband’s house and she did not want me to visit her too often either. Perhaps she wished to avoid the salacious gossip that my visits led to. Everyone my age was married except me. I was the odd one out, the unnatural one, and so on. I had a broken marriage, I was a sinner and an amoral woman. How could a good housewife be associated with someone like me! So she studiously avoided associating with me, busy as she was with her in-laws and deeply concerned about their happiness. She convinced Father to invite all the people from her in-laws’ side to Abakash for which Mother spent the entire day in the kitchen cooking. A few days later she came over to Abakash again to have lunch—with her husband, her mother-in-law, her brothers-in-law and their wives. I gave her all the things I had bought in India; it seemed to make her happy. I was not particularly attached to my gold jewellery either, so I gave that to her too—this time I could clearly see in her sparkling eyes that she was happy.

  Although bad times can be relentless, usually there are thresholds after which things seem to turn around. For me, never-ending misfortunes were piling up one on top of another. The final devastating blow came one fateful morning. Abdul Karim, whom I had borrowed 30,000 taka from, turned up at Abakash and made an unbelievable scene, all because I had only managed to pay him back 5000 thus far. He screamed about how I had borrowed money from him to pay for a holiday in India, how I was a disgusting woman, how he had never met another person like me, and much more drivel. I had borrowed money from him before my trip to India, on the condition that I was going to pay him back on a monthly basis after receiving my salary. Although he had agreed to the terms then, he came to the house with the sudden demand that I pay him back the entire money all at once. This was the same man who never used to miss an opportunity to make a pass at me and I always pretended to not notice his overtures.

  Once he had invited me to a businessman’s house in Chhota Bazaar to show me some flowers and seedling samples. Not being suspicious I had gone and found Abdul Karim sitting in a dimly lit room with a middle-aged businessman wearing a green kurta—the sort who carries wads of currency notes in his po
ckets. When Abdul Karim had launched into platitudes—the businessman in green was very rich, he was going to give me money whenever I needed it, I would not even have to worry about paying him back—I had pretended to not understand their hints, smiled, drank tea, spoken to the man in green about farming for a few moments and then excused myself with urgent hospital business in order to leave. Another time Karim had turned up at Abakash and told me, ‘Doctor, I have an ailment. What should I do?’ When I had asked what was wrong with him, he had lowered his voice and whispered that he was suffering from excessive sexual desire. Neither of his two wives were able to satisfy him because he could stay for long but they usually finished too soon; the more he wanted the more they were unable to meet his expectations. I had listened to the entire diatribe and pretended it was a common complaint among people, like the flu, indigestion or dysentery. Doing my best to keep my face and my expression impassive I had calmly spoken to the bald, corrupt man, his teeth stained with paan and his belly shaking with laughter, to tell him about possible ways of treatment.