by Mina Khan
DEAD: A Ghost Story
Mina Khan
http://minakhan.blogspot.com
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Nasreen watches in shamed silence as her husband and the Hispanic woman have sex.
He is on top, eyes scrunched shut, thrusting, plunging in and out as if driven by hard fury. Matin’s flabby arms shake under the strain. A series of short grunts mark his efforts. Maria lies under him with her legs sticking up in the air in a wide open V and red nails digging into his pale, hairy back. She lets loose long guttural moans from time to time and a few feverish “Ay, Papi!”-s, all the while watching the flickering television over Matin’s shoulder. His belly slaps into her body, over and over again. Slap, slap, slap.
Finally, their faces freeze in ugly grimaces. They let out joint yowls and collapse in a tangle of limbs in different shades of brown. The sour smell of sweat and sex bloats the small room.
Hovering above them, Nasreen sees Matin’s bald spot sticking out like an egg in his nest of unruly black hair. Her gaze traces the age spots flecking Maria’s arms and thighs and notices the faded pink flowers in the twisted sheets that hadn’t been changed since she last slept in the bed.
In disgust, Nasreen turns away and finds herself swept up to the rafters. She still isn’t used to being dead and without the weight of her body. She swirls around, despondent and unsettled.
Watching the animal rutting brings back bad memories of all the times her husband had demanded his “rights.” Even now, she wants to scratch and kick at him, scream her hatred. She’d tried. Instead of satisfying impact, her fists simply went through Matin. Her mouth moved soundlessly when she’d tried to hurl accusations at him. They don’t see her now, standing there glaring at them. She doesn’t even cast a shadow.
A shudder of regret passes through Nasreen. Why did she exist as a mere shadow when she’d been alive? Why did she swallow all those bitter words in the name of family peace? Why didn’t she use her God-given legs to simply walk away? Now she is of even less substance than the fragile and forgotten cobweb hanging in the darkest corner of the house. The thought makes Nasreen’s eyes burn with hot, stinging tears. Loud, heavy sobs wrench out of her as she realizes that in death, as in life, she’s nothing.
In bed, both Maria and Matin tense up. Their eyes fly open, they lie very still, holding their breaths.
“What was that?” Maria whispers. “Did you hear it?”
Matin, silent for a few heartbeats, shakes his head. “It’s the wind. Just the wind.”
“It sounded like a woman crying,” Maria says, as she snuggles deeper into his soft chest. “Such a sad sound.”
Nasreen stops crying and stares. Did they hear her or was it really the wind? She shouts, “Matin, you selfish bastard!” Her words fall soundlessly into the room.
Disappointed, she sinks down, through the floorboards, into the living room with its orange shag carpet. The hum of the window unit fills the silence. The smell of old cooking— laced with chilies and turmeric and cumin— hangs like an oily curtain in the air. Nasreen winds her way to the kitchen, her hand brushing against the peeling blue wallpaper with its orange and white flowers. A whisper soft Shhhh-shhh-shh accompanies her progress. Hope ignites inside like a candle, already melted into a short stub. She plucks at the paper. But her ghost fingers can’t grasp, can’t hold on. If only she’d torn the paper off the walls while she’d been alive and able. With a sigh, a last touch, she leaves the wall behind.
She stands in front of the kitchen sink looking out of the single window -- a familiar stance, a familiar view. The sky is white hot. The earth, flat and dusty, dotted with scrawny shrubs. The kiss between sky and earth is dry and parched. The panorama stretches, unraveling, as far as Nasreen can see, just like it had the day she’d arrived in Sand Lake, Texas, seven years ago.
Matin had bought a second-hand station wagon, piled Nasreen and all their belongings into it and driven them all the way from New York.
“It’s going to be a new opportunity, a new beginning,” he’d said. “We’re going to be hotel owners!”
She should’ve known better, known that like all of Matin’s promises, this too would be overblown and full of holes. Reality had been a motel, with peeling gray paint and dead weeds dancing in the wind. A faded sign, proclaiming “The Grande Motel,” squeaked to and fro above the front office door. The sulfur smell of rotten eggs filled the air, proclaimed it oil country. Bill’s Feed Store and the notary public’s office flanking the motel had closed for the day.
Desolation pressed down on Nasreen, hot and oppressive. She’d stood in her blue cotton sari and flip-flops —her concession to summer—in the cracked asphalt parking lot, empty except for their station wagon, and cried.
Until Matin shot a glob of spit right at her feet. “Shut up and help me unload.”
Nasreen had stared at him as if he was a part of the strangeness around her. She drew in long, sob-laced gulps of breath. Her slippers, her sari, everything, felt wrong.
Nasreen trembles gazing at the land, so different from the land she’d known growing up. In West Bengal, especially during the monsoon season, everything was green. The trees, the grass, the vines --all came in so many different shades of green. Greens that seemed to breathe, grow and brighten with every beat of her heart. Once, she’d taken all that life for granted. Now her eyes itch as the Texas heat sucks dry every blade of grass, every clod of earth, every bit of moisture.
Footsteps echo on the stairs and Nasreen drifts over to watch Matin and Maria descend. They are holding hands. She wonders how long their affair has been going on. They look comfortable with each other, familiar, no self-conscious fumbling and stumbling. Nasreen shakes her head as she remembers the awkwardness of her first encounters with Matin, with sex and physical intimacy, with being a wife.
The first time they met, Nasreen had been nineteen and Matin thirty-six. On holiday from America, he visited Nawabpur, his mother’s paternal village. His mother’s grandfather, Alok Chowdhury, and his ancestors had owned the entire village once upon a time. However, much of that ancestral wealth had disappeared. Matin’s cousins turned to business and trade to eke out a living. But the memory of the family’s grandeur remained, shimmering like a fantastic mirage, mesmerizing all.
Nasreen’s father was the mathematics professor at the local college. His government job provided him a small house and an even smaller salary, adequate for the widower and his only daughter. Then one evening, Sayeed Chowdhury -- a comfortably middleclass businessman and direct descendant of Alok -- brought his American cousin for a visit. They claimed to have come for intellectual conversation. Nasreen served them tea.
Matin was immediately taken by her. He’d told her later that her shyness had stirred his loins. Her long hair, a silky black curtain down her back, fueled his fantasies. He sent a proposal before the end of the week.
Nasreen remembered Matin’s heavy jowls, his pockmarked skin and the potbelly stretching his shirt and said no. Her father sighed.
&nbs
p; “Ma, be reasonable,” he’d said. “I’m growing older every day and I would never forgive myself if I were to die without marrying you off. Your husband will take care of you after I’m gone.”
The professor said Matin’s proposal was the best that she, a poor teacher’s daughter, could expect. In fact, Matin was better than what could be expected -- a successful businessman from America and of Chowdhury blood. Her father borrowed a book of maps from the college library and pointed out New York to Nasreen. It seemed so far away, so unreal -- a small blotch of color on a page that could be turned and forgotten.
Matin visited almost daily, carrying sweets and books. He told wonderful tales of America with its shiny buildings stretching to the sky; clean, air-conditioned shops that had more things than could be imagined, like sweaters for dogs and socks with bells; and underground trains that carried millions of people. He laughed and spoke of being a lucky man. He’d won the American visa lottery, after all.
Her friends were envious, she was going abroad, to the land of plenty where no one went hungry or wore threadbare saris. Every one of them had heard stories of America from a lucky relative who’d made it to that distant land. One of them noticed her sadness and remarked, “Eeesh! I don’t know why you’re pretending such sadness? My sister’s husband’s cousin’s son says anything is possible in America. You should see his car, tomato red and shiny, with no roof. Brand new! I saw a photograph he sent back.”
But when two fat tears rolled down Nasreen’s face, the other girl had softened. “Don’t worry so much,” she’d said. “With a new husband, and a new home --you won’t have time to miss this old place.”
Matin and Nasreen married within a month. Her father used most of his savings to buy three sets of gold jewelry as her wedding present.
“I wish I could do more,” the professor told Nasreen. “But at least now the Chowdhuries will know they are getting a girl from a respectable family.”
Nasreen floats in front of the framed wedding picture, prominently displayed on the fireplace mantle in the living room. Matin is wearing a long white groom’s coat with gold embroidery and loose pants. A pink, silk turban sits on his head and a thick flower garland hangs on his neck. She is dressed in a red and gold benarasi sari, a matching flower garland and almost all her gold jewelry, standing next to him.
Or rather, she’s almost hidden by his bulk. His thick lips are split in a self-congratulatory smile as he clutches her hand, while she stares at the camera in wide-eyed panic.
“I don’t like that picture,” Maria says, startling Nasreen out of her thoughts.
Matin laughs. It sounds coarse and rude. “Why? Are you jealous?”
“No,” she says, barely suppressing a shiver. “But your wife seems to be staring at me, watching me.”
Her words, feathered with fear, make Nasreen smile. A small flare of petty pleasure launches through her. Part of her feels guilty. But then some days that was the only kind of pleasure to be had.
“Don’t be silly,” Matin says, stomping away. “Make us some lunch. I’ll be in the front office for a bit.”
He leaves Maria sitting on the lumpy brown couch still looking at the picture. After a while, she shrugs her soft, round shoulders and pushes to her feet. She walks from room to room whistling a tune.
Nasreen follows, close enough that if she were breathing Maria would have felt the puffs of air on her neck. She watches the woman rifle through closets and drawers, peek under the mattress and bed, and even search inside Matin’s shoes. Nerves prickle through her.
Maria pulls out some cash from an old dress shoe in the back of the closet, counts it and carefully puts it back. Nasreen’s right hand flies to her mouth. Why had she never thought of doing this? God, she’d been nothing more than a placid cow until led to slaughter.
Impatience builds inside like steam from a boiling kettle as Maria also finds Matin’s locked safe in the bedroom closet; and his bankbook on an overhead shelf. She opens the bathroom cabinet and studies all the medicines and tonics stored there. Nasreen looks over her shoulder and laughs at Matin’s hair coloring kit. So little hair, so much vanity.
At noon, Maria hurries into the kitchen and grabs tomatoes, a cucumber, cheese and lunch meat from the fridge.
Nasreen surges forward, right into Maria’s face. “Don’t stop! There’s more to find. You still haven’t found me!”
Maria stills and cocks her head to one side. Her breath comes hard and fast as her gaze jumps around the empty room.
Nasreen takes a deep breath and tries again. “I’m here. I didn’t mean to scare you.” For good measure, she gently caresses one of Maria’s plump cheeks.
No reaction. Tears spring to Nasreen’s eyes and her head bows in defeat. Even in death she cannot control her existence.
After a moment, Maria shakes her head and her stance softens. She hurries over to the sink whispering a prayer. Once she sets the food down on the counter, once the last word is uttered, she makes the sign of the cross and focuses on lunch.
Maria’s glance flickers between the kitchen clock and the office door as she slices onions, tomatoes, and cucumbers.
Horror, cold and wet, seeps through Nasreen. Oh God no. She’d spent her married life stuck to Matin, now she was still stuck haunting him…that too without satisfaction. She slumps into a chair at the kitchen table and watches Maria work. This is where she spent most of her time and now she’s been replaced. In a day.
She looks at Maria closely, comparing herself to the other woman. Maria is short, with curves and smooth roundness. She hums a happy tune as she works, swaying her full hips to the music. Before her death, Nasreen’s slenderness had concentrated into a haggard leanness.
Sex had become less and less frequent between husband and wife. When Matin did get up the effort, he always complained how hard and unresponsive she was. “It’s like making love to a particularly bony fish that’s been dead for a while,” he said. “There is no life there, but the bones they stick you and they hurt.”
During those instances, Nasreen would turn her face to the wall. She hadn’t enjoyed or anticipated physical intimacy with Matin. Never once had she felt loved, just used for sex —a conjugal right he demanded and she had to comply with. When she did move, it was to shove some hard part of herself – an elbow or a knee – into a soft part of him.
Matin had been disappointed when their couplings didn’t result in any children. From time to time he brought up the subject. “Your father anchored me with a barren cow,” he’d say. “He tricked me into marrying you.”
Nasreen had learned the hard way to keep quiet during such tirades. Matin believed in discipline. Not about time, food or self-control, but in regard to his wife. Sessions that started with slaps and name-calling, led to yanking her by the hair and beating her with a shoe, and ended with punches and kicks. She’d thanked God every day that there were no children. What kind of life would she have brought them into?
Since they’d arrived in Sand Lake, Matin manned the front office of the motel and took care of the paper work and money, while Nasreen served as the cleaning crew. She went from room to room, vacuuming, making the beds, scrubbing the bathrooms and emptying wastepaper baskets. Sometimes she’d find gum stuck on the tables and she’d have to pry it loose. A number of times she found used condoms, dirty magazines and, once, red lace panties. In the beginning, Matin let her sit in the front office in the afternoons while he napped.
Until one of the customers asked about her later. “You’re flirting with those rednecks,” he had screamed, spittle flying. “I’ll show you to disrespect me.”
That night he’d beaten her and barred her from the office forever. Purple and blue bruises bloomed and spread across her skin like shaplas –those beautiful star-like lilies--over the body of a lake.
Then a few weeks ago, Matin had shown up with Maria.
“She will help you clean.”
Nasreen had stared. Matin wasn’t one to spend money without compla
ining. When she asked about it, he turned gruff.
“Don’t worry about the money,” he’d said. “Customers are complaining about the rooms not being clean enough, so now it’s going to be Maria and you.”
Her thoughts return to Maria. Both of them have long hair and they both serve as maids for Matin. Well, she is done with all that now, at least that is one advantage of being dead.
Nasreen watches as Matin slips in through the door separating the office from their living quarters. He sits down at the kitchen table. Maria sets down sandwiches for both of them.
“What, no rice? I like rice.”
Maria shrugs carelessly.
“It’s too hot,” she says. “I didn’t feel like cooking.” That earns her a glare. She looks away. “Ay, Papi! Don’t sulk. I’ll cook rice tonight.”
Matin turns to his sandwich, taking large bites and chewing noisily. He doesn’t talk and his eyes stay on his food as if it would escape if he looks away. Nasreen gets up and walks back to look out the window, glad she no longer has to sit with him, ready to refill his glass and bring him the salt or whatever it is he might want.
“So when is your wife coming back?” Maria asks.
“She’s not,” he says. “I told you she left me.”
Maria laughs, a short cynical snort.
“They always come back,” she says. “Mousy women like that don’t know where to go, what to do.”
Nasreen looks over her shoulder at Maria. Her anger flares up and disappears just as quick. That wasn’t far from the truth. Forget coming back, she hadn’t been able to leave. Now she wished she’d learned to drive, but Matin had refused to teach her. In the village she’d walked everywhere or taken a rickshaw. The one year spent in New York she’d enjoyed riding around in the subway, jostling and swaying, just one of the crowd. Now she wished she had flirted with one of the customers and run away. Maria was wrong. If she’d left, she would never have come back. If she’d left….
