by Mina Khan
Nasreen’s thoughts drift back to her arrival in New York as a new bride. Matin’s big business turned out to be a cleaning service. He and three other men cleaned office buildings after hours. Matin had invested the capital and being the most confident of the lot, he hustled jobs and contracts. In return, the others called him Boss. Besides working together, the men also shared a tiny two-room apartment in Jackson Heights.
When Nasreen arrived, the three single men moved into one room. The boys, as she thought of them, didn’t mind. She became the den mother -- cooking their favorite foods, mending their torn shirts, and doing their laundry. On their days off, they all went out as a group. The boys loved playing tour guide to Nasreen. She’d known Matin didn’t like the attention she got, but was surprised when, a year later, he sold the business to one of the other men and moved to Sand Lake.
Matin swallows his last bite and leans back in his chair. Maria smiles at him. “So you’re single again, Mr. Motel owner.”
Matin laughs. A big braying laugh that reminds Nasreen of a gadha, donkey. “Looks like it. But don’t get any ideas, I’m in no hurry to be married again.”
Maria pouts, fans her lashes and leans forward to show more cleavage. “Don’t worry, Maria will look after you.”
He pulls her to him roughly and presses his mouth down on hers. Nasreen looks away. Matin’s always been one to grab and take. No asking, no preparing. Maria finishes the kiss on his lap.
“Did she take all her things with her?” she asks.
“Why?”
“Well, if she left behind some clothes, I could look through them,” she says. “Might find something I could use.”
He shakes his head. “No, most of them are deshi clothes. Saris, shalwar-kammezes. Things you don’t wear.”
“What about her jewelry?” she asks. “I’d wear those.”
“No, no, don’t ask about the jewelry!” Nasreen cries out. Fear wallops her. She trembles as she looks from Maria to Matin and back again. He stares at Maria without any expression like a pale tiktiki -- a lizard --stares at a fly, minutes before devouring it with a single lunge.
Not that she likes Maria much, but it is the question of another life, another human being. She knows Matin’s temper and doesn’t want another person hurt.
When the woman first came, Nasreen had tried making conversation in her broken English only to be rebuffed by monosyllabic replies. Then, just yesterday, she’d caught her and Matin having sex in one of the motel rooms.
Maria and Nasreen, following their regular work schedule, started at different ends of the row of rooms and worked their way to the middle. When she’d run short of Lysol, Nasreen had gone in search of Maria and her supply cart. Instead, she’d found the two of them.
Shocked, Nasreen had fled the scene. But she was even more surprised to realize that she didn’t feel jealous or betrayed. The anger and sadness she felt had little to do with Matin and Maria, and everything to do with herself.
She missed real conversations, the sharing of thoughts and ideas, laughing at jokes and making someone else laugh at her jokes. She missed the familiar village dirt roads winding between green fields, the shimmering expanse of the Hoogly River crisscrossed by fishing boats and packed ferries. She missed the cool monsoon rains, the smell of wet earth and green grass, and the sour bite of green mangoes collected after a storm. She’d given all of that up for what? This empty marriage?
Her heart ached for another Bengali-speaking person, a person who understood her, a friend. Anyone other than Matin. She wanted to go home.
Nasreen packed everything: her clothes, her jewelry, a few tattered Bengali books that she’d read over and over, and precious letters from her father that had been unfolded and refolded many times.
Matin had found her with her suitcase on the landing. He bounded up the stairs and tore the suitcase from her hands. “Where do you think you are going?”
“I want to go home,” she said. “Just send me home and you can live with that-- that whore.” He’d slapped her then. His ring split open her lip. She could still taste the warm, salty blood.
He opened the suitcase and rummaged through the hurriedly packed contents. Saris, blouses and petticoats-- faded and softened with use -- flew through air and landed in sad heaps. Finally, he pulled out the bag with her jewelry. “You’re stealing from me?”
“Those are mine,” she’d said. His fist smashed into her then and she stumbled against the wall.
“These are the only things worth anything your father handed over,” he said.
“Those are mine,” she’d said again. “Those are the last gifts from my father to me. They are mine.”
She’d tried to snatch them back. As they struggled, Nasreen lost her footing when Matin shoved her. Her body bounced from step to step, her head cracked against the banister. A great rush of pain flooded through her, followed by darkness.
Nasreen remembers Matin standing at the top of the stairs and staring down at her. She remembers him rubbing his hands over his face. She remembers the keen wailing note of panic that tore through his grimacing lips. She remembers his slow, shaky descent, how he’d reached out with his right foot and given her a few half-hearted kicks. When she didn’t respond, he’d dropped down and checked her pulse. She remembers how his face had crumpled with distaste when his hands touched her skin. She remembers him shaking her, demanding she wake. Nasreen had watched it all from above.
Maria’s harsh laugh breaks into her thoughts. Nasreen blinks back tears and focuses on the present.
“Nah, being a woman I bet she took everything,” Maria says, hugging herself. She rubs her arms as if cold. Her fear prickles the air around her. Maria glances at the wedding portrait and then the clock on the wall. “Ay yi-yii! I gotta be going.”
Hope skitters up Nasreen’s spine. Had the other woman felt her presence? The more intense her emotions, the more others seemed aware of her existence.
She rushes toward Maria. Misses her target by a foot. Ooof! She forces her mind to calm and drifts closer.
“Where?” Matin asks.
“My other job, silly!” Maria laughs and twirls out of his reach.
Nasreen whispers a relieved prayer. Both Matin and Maria are breathing normally, speaking casually.
Matin scratches his face. “You don’t have to keep working at that convenience store, you know,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”
“Aw, that’s sweet,” she says. “But I need to let my manager know proper. I don’t show up today, he’ll be so mad that he’ll hassle me about my paycheck.”
“Okay, but talk to him.”
Maria smiles and nods. “Oh, I’ll pick up some groceries on the way back,” she says. “You’re almost out of milk and eggs.”
Matin looks stunned. He’d always done the shopping, the errands, the contact with outside. He nods slowly. “Ok, that’ll be good.”
Maria grabs her keys and purse, then stops and pouts again. “I’ll need some cash though.”
Matin slowly pulls out his worn wallet and counts out $20, broken down into various denominations. Maria stuffs the bills into her purse and hurries out.
Nasreen stares at her disappearing back. Stay calm, stay focused. She knows Matin will pull her body out from the attic and dispose of it. She doesn’t know how and where. She doesn’t care to know. The body is no longer her concern. Besides, she’s gotten used to this new freedom, this lightness of being and not being. And now, she’s getting some control. She drifts after Maria like a light breeze.
Nasreen sits on the passenger side of Maria’s pickup and studies the Madonna prayer card and rosary hanging from the mirror. Maria drives fast, singing along to pop songs in Spanish. Nasreen doesn’t understand the words, but she enjoys the happy music.
Maria screeches to a stop behind the convenience store. A man, with a black hat pulled low over his face, is lounging against the wall. He straightens and saunters toward them, but Maria is impatient. She jumps out and ru
ns to him. They kiss. Nasreen blushes, but doesn’t look away. The kiss is like those in movies -- full of drama, passion and color.
They finally move apart and talk. Maria fills him in on everything she’s found in the foreigner’s house. The man says there must be more in the office. They arrange to meet at the motel later that night. Maria will leave the back door of the living quarters unlocked.
Nasreen knows Matin is in deep trouble, his luck has run out. Maybe they will simply steal everything, maybe they will beat Matin up, or maybe they will kill him. There is nothing she can do. Or is there?
A shiver runs through her. When she’d cried, they’d heard something and when she’d feared for Maria, the woman had felt something. She had better understanding and control of her new situation. Perhaps, she could warn Matin.
Instinctively, Nasreen started to head back to the motel when a single, unbidden thought whispers in her mind: why?
She realizes she doesn’t want to warn Matin. Like her body, she is no longer tied to him.
Nasreen laughs and enjoys floating in the air. She swims through the clouds like the silver fish she’d seen playing in the Hoogly River. Freedom runs through her veins, nourishes her soul. It’s a beautiful day. She will ride the winds. She will find her way back to that little village tucked in the heart of Bengal, back to the lush green land bathed by monsoon rains, back home. She knows she can.
THE END
Dear Readers:
Domestic violence is a sad and real part of our world. The National Coalition Against Domestic Violence defines domestic violence as a pattern of behavior used to establish power and control through fear and intimidation, often including the threat of use of violence. The controlling partner believes they are entitled to control the spouse.
Did you know?
One in every four women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime.
Every year, 1 in 3 women who is a victim of homicide is murdered by her current or former partner.
Among women brought to emergency rooms due to domestic violence, most were socially isolated and had fewer social and financial resources
Most cases of domestic violence are never reported to the police
“Dead” was inspired by the many immigrant wives I met in small scattered communities while I worked as reporter in West Texas. For the most part these women are invisible to mainstream society for various reasons – language barriers, isolation, and unfamiliarity with their adopted country’s laws and social mores etc. These factors also make many immigrant women especially vulnerable to domestic abuse.
Violence against women is not a new thing, but it is wrong and should not exist. Silence in the face of injustice can hurt and it’s important to add your voice to what is right. I wrote “Dead” to recognize my voiceless sisters and to highlight a usually hush-hush part of the immigrant story.
I hope Nasreen’s story made you think and touched your heart. Fortunately there are many organizations working to help women get out of violent and abusive situations. I’m attaching a list I have pulled together for your information, and I’m sure there are organizations serving your community. If you can, please help support them:
New Bridge Family Shelter
http://www.icdbridges.org/
Concho Valley Rape Crisis Center
http://cv-rcc.org/
Asian Family Support Services of Austin
http://www.saheli-austin.org/d6/
Saheli Boston
http://www.saheliboston.org/
SafeHorizon
http://www.safehorizon.org/
Texas Association Against Sexual Assault
http://www.taasa.org/
Texas Muslim Women’s Foundation’s Peaceful Oasis Family Shelter
http://tmwf.org/website/index.php
Texas Advocacy Project
http://www.texasadvocacyproject.org/
National Coalition Against Domestic Violence
http://www.ncadv.org/
Thank you for your time & attention!
Mina
Ready for some genie romance by Mina Khan? Titles available wherever ebooks are sold:
The Djinns Dilemma, 2011,
published by Harlequin Nocturne Cravings.
"What do you do when the one person who steals your heart is the person you're meant to kill? That very intriguing premise sets up Mina Khan's equally intriguing (and djinn-filled) paranormal romance novella." - Book Lovers Inc.
A Tale of Two Djinns, 2012
A TALE OF TWO DJINNS is a sexy paranormal Romeo & Juliet story with genies, feminists, kickass action & adult fun.
Fifty percent of all the proceeds from the sale of 2 Djinns goes to UNICEF for education.
Mina Khan is busy penning more genie romances and other tales. To discover what she’s up to next:
Blog: Stories By Mina Khan
FaceBook: www.facebook.com/Mina.Khan.Author/
