Revenge

by Taslima Nasrin

  But unlike me, at least so far, these young women were in danger of being cast out if their husbands came to suspect they were barren or could give birth only to girls. How would Aisha manage by herself? Sebati attended these abandoned girls with no less passion than she did a fertile mother giving birth to her third son. The health of every patient absorbed her. I couldn’t get the young women out of my mind. What happened to the mothers of stillborns or girls when they got home to their families in disgrace? I could well imagine the slaps and kicks they would suffer, the dependency from which there was no respite.

  I had a friend, Parul, whose husband had divorced her. To her parents, it mattered not at all that she had been tortured day and night by the husband who had released her, against her will, from their marriage. He had taken a new, younger wife, and they believed, that, of course, his infidelity was all Parul’s fault. If she had given him what he wanted, he would never have subjected her to the disgrace of sudden divorce at the hands of a mullah. To make herself welcome in her parent’s house, Parul was compelled to take the position of a servant. She aged overnight, doing all the housework, her mother never ceasing to remind her that no decent man would ever take a divorceé for a wife. Poor Parul—she had lived not two but three lives as a woman—daughter, wife, and now, the worst, divorceé.

  In Sebati, I found a woman who didn’t depend on her husband—a situation I had never seen before, even in my own home. Sebati’s husband shared the housework, a rare arrangement. My friend Nadira’s elder sister and her husband both had jobs in the bank, yet Nadira’s sister was the one who disappeared into the kitchen the minute she got home, while her husband sat on the sofa and watched television. They earned the same salary and equally shared the household expenses, but it was always Nadira’s sister who looked after the children and washed and cooked, in addition to holding down a job as demanding as her husband’s. Sebati and Anwar’s household ran according to a different set of rules. I couldn’t believe my eyes one afternoon when I got to their flat and found Sebati sound asleep! When she got up, she explained that she simply had nothing left for housework after a night at the hospital. Anwar and she both lived in the house, didn’t they? Why should she bear all the responsibility? Anwar had worked in Germany for two years and learned to cook for himself—he actually enjoyed it, he said.

  Listening to Sebati, I wished Haroon and I had a place of our own so we could run a house together and share expenses and housework. Then I could take a job! I was certainly tired of cooking every day, of having to look after the entire family. I wanted time to relax; I loved the idea of sitting down to a dinner that Haroon had cooked, but when I told him about Anwar’s culinary expertise, he sneered. “He must be gay.” I wondered how it was that cooking took away one’s heterosexuality. “Tell your friend’s husband he should wear bangles on his wrists!”

  Haroon was not aware of the extent of my intimacy with Sebati; he barely noticed when I stopped telling him about myself. In Sebati I now confided my discontent and loneliness, the distance I felt between Haroon and myself. She was sympathetic. Taking my hands in hers, she declared she would always stand by me. I might no longer have my parents and my wonderful friends, but I had Sebati, a friend whom the family tolerated. More than tolerated! They welcomed her because she was a doctor. Because she looked after them when they became ill. Because she wrote them prescriptions. Her importance grew exponentially overnight when Hasan was hit by a truck one day as he cycled to Sarvar—both his legs were broken, and several ribs. In no time, Sebati arranged for a Sarvar colleague of hers to operate, sparing no effort to get Hasan the best possible treatment.

  I visited Hasan in the hospital once, with Amma. There I found Ranu weeping copiously for her husband, sitting at his feet. She stayed at the hospital most of the time since Amma didn’t think it proper for me, a bou of the house, to do hospital duty. “Stay at home and read the Koran so Hasan gets well,” she said. I wanted Hasan to recover too! Didn’t she think I would read the Koran and say my prayers without her direction? But I doubted just reading the Koran would help. Amma began to visit the hospital every day, carrying a thermos of hot soup and a tiffin box full of food. Dolon went with her—after all, Hasan was her little brother. Since Ranu was never at home either, the house was empty most of the time.

  And so every night in my dreams I descended to the realm of my temptation. I knew that down the steps lay my desired object, concealed within a golden casket, as in a fairy tale. All I had to do was unfasten the latch. This was a secret I shared with no one, not even Sebati.

  It was an afternoon when everyone was out—Baba had gone to Noakhai, Anis was in Chittagong, Haroon at the office, all the others at the hospital. Only Rosuni and I were in the house. After lunch, I found her stretched out on the floor, watching television. I was going down to see Sebati, I told her, even though I knew Sebati wouldn’t be at home. Rosuni, of course, was delighted. My absence gave her freedom—she could do all the things forbidden her: sit on the sofa with her feet up, take a rest on any of the beds in the house, watch whatever she wanted on TV. She was, like anyone in her position, grateful for small blessings like snatching a few hours alone in an empty house.

  The front door of Sebati’s flat came ajar at the touch of my hand, and I tiptoed in to find Afzal sitting on the veranda reading a book, bare chested, wearing nothing but loose white pajama trousers. Quietly, I moved behind him, not wishing to disturb his concentration, engrossed as he was. And then, a breeze stirred in the room and the end of my sari fluttered. Startled, he looked up.

  “Ah, who but the upstairs bou! How long have you been here?” I stood there awkwardly, saying something about wanting to see Sebati.

  “I don’t believe you for a second!” he declared.

  “Why else would I be here?”

  “You’ve come because she’s out,” he replied, smiling like a cat as I lowered my eyes and turned to leave. He took one of my hands, and as he drew me to him, I breathed in the warmth of his chest, not feeling the least inclined to pull away.

  “Why do you wear so much jewelry?”

  “Because I am the bou.”

  “So you do what they like?”

  “It is expected.”

  “See if they expect this!” With that, he planted a kiss full on my mouth. Flabbergasted, I pulled slightly away, but he ignored my hesitation, lifted me in his arms and carried me straight into his bedroom. As I made a feeble attempt to withdraw, an image came to me of Dipu dancing in the clouds, and with that, I went weak, entwining my arms around Afzal’s neck. As Afzal laid me on his bed, he was no longer Sebati’s brother-in-law or the man downstairs. In our sweep across the room, my sari had loosened, and my hair had fallen from its pins. I kept my eyes closed—I was Shipra, bashful in her bridal chamber—but at the brush of Afzal’s lips, my eyes opened like flowers, the woman on the wall coming into focus.

  “What are you looking at,” he asked, his hands stroking my cheeks.

  “Your girl . . . ”

  “The woman in my painting? She was called Suranjana. I asked her never to leave me, but she did—for another man,” he said, looking me straight in the eye.

  “And then?”

  “The man took off all her clothes . . . ”

  “And then?”

  “And then he kissed her.” Afzal was lifting my chin, kissing me.

  “And then?”

  “He made her run off with him—to a place far away.”

  “How far away?”

  “So far away I’ll never be able to reach her.”

  “And the place?”

  “A place across seven seas and thirteen rivers.”

  We were hurling dreams like roses, swimming up through azure waves of some distant ocean.

  I couldn’t have placed what I was doing in my actual life at that moment even if I’d wanted to. Perhaps I wasn’t there at all. Perhaps I had been incarnated into my beloved Shipra and it was she who was surrendering to these caresses. But it was
my body that was coming to life, resounding with each stroke of this man’s hands. How could I be enjoying pleasure with an utter stranger? Despite my romantic character, I was a traditional girl, a bou, and yet, here I was, throwing a lifetime of training to the winds. I had guarded my virginity in order to bestow a chaste body on my husband on my wedding night. I had never desired any man but Haroon. What was happening to me? Maybe this man and his bed, this man and his melancholy eyes and tender hands and taut body were a chimera, a delusion. Any moment Amma’s voice would sound, bringing me back to the kitchen.

  “Jhumur, why are you here?” I was startled by his sudden question, shaken. So this wasn’t a dream. I was not Shipra, but Jhumur, the upstairs bou.

  “I don’t know,” I said, my voice quavering.

  “You don’t, really?” he reached to take my chin in his hands, but I pulled back, suddenly frightened of what I was doing. I rolled over, placing my bare feet firmly on the floor.

  “You said you wanted to paint me . . . ” I said.

  “I only paint nudes,” Afzal answered, looking boldly at my body, my loosened clothes. My head was spinning. He sounded as if he were intoxicated.

  I was not sure if it was my silence that encouraged him or whether he was a man always ready for a challenge. I didn’t want to think at all as Afzal unfastened my blouse, caressing my body. My loosened hair fell from bondage onto his bare shoulders, my fingers played with his hair, his stubbled cheeks, his lips, the tangle of curls on his chest. He was watching the rise of my breasts. He was lavishing me with love.

  The sudden sound of the telephone above us sent me, hair in disarray, pulling on my blouse, wrapping my sari, up the stairs. Rosuni opened the door, but she was alone in the apartment. I didn’t speak to her, or ask who was on the phone. I headed straight to the bathroom, into the shower. As the water fell, the colors of Afzal’s lovemaking, the sensuality of our bodies washed over my body with the water. But I would not emerge from this bath fresh and pure—my life had been shaken. Was I responsible? Or was Afzal? Perhaps our encounter had been a gift from the gods of passion, an exercise of their own pleasure. Impersonal. Pure. Tears soaked my pillow as I lay my head to rest. That night, when Haroon came to bed, I asked permission to go to Wari for a few days.

  “Why do you want to go there?”

  “Oh please . . . ”

  “Why go there? You clearly have no reason to . . . ” His voice was brusque. “Hasan is ill in the hospital. Everyone in the family is worried sick and you want to go to Wari and enjoy yourself! I’m shocked how little you care for our family!”

  I got up and went to the window. Soon I was weeping, but in silence. Haroon couldn’t hear my tears, but I could hear him toss and turn.“Why are you standing there like an apparition?” I was no sooner back in bed than he began to make love to me. Now his voice changed to a tone of love. “My darling, please. I want a baby,” he said, tenderness breaking his voice.

  “And so that is why you won’t let me go to see my parents. You want a son and you must have me every night.” Abruptly, he pulled out of me.

  “I won’t allow you to sleep around with your old boy-friends! You are my wife! Have your parents come here!”

  I said nothing, and soon he was asleep. As I lay there sleepless, any guilt I had about my dalliance with Afzal disappeared like receding clouds.

  11

  Hasan’s hospital stay was eating up time and money and the life of the family. Every day, on the way back from the office, Haroon went to see him, and Amma, Dolon, and Ranu remained at the bedside. The house, therefore, was deserted virtually every afternoon, and, as for the flat downstairs, Sebati’s maid and cook were gone by noon, and Anwar never got home before evening, and Sebati rarely did.

  No one had an inkling of our affair—Haroon was not even aware that I had met Sebati’s brother-in-law. As for picking up the odor of another man, he was so intent on getting me pregnant, he hardly paid attention to me when we made love. I tried to tell myself that I was involved with Afzal only to shake off the feeling of loneliness that had come with my marriage, but I couldn’t help comparing my husband to my eager lover, and I was increasingly indifferent to Haroon’s advances. One night I decided I wanted just to sleep.

  “Get off,” I said, pushing him away.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sleepy.”

  “Sleep later!”

  “I’m not feeling well.”

  “What’s wrong.”

  “I have a stomachache.”

  “I’ll be gentle.”

  “No,” I said flatly.

  It was the first time I had ever refused him, and I felt a particular glee, even triumph. When he turned his back to go to sleep, a warning wound through my brain: “Don’t dare touch me, Haroon. My body carries the signature of another man. Your bride is an adulterer. She has become what you have accused her of.”

  I was not without conflict, however. After several weeks, I found myself assailed by a flood of doubt. I grew pale, and would forget things, adding salt to the curry twice, letting the pilaf burn to cinders. Was I pregnant again? I tried to calm down, carrying on a dialogue with myself. I loved Haroon. I was the one who had wanted to marry him. But right after marriage, he had become cold and emotionally distant, and then he had forced me to abort our child. In my position as bou, I felt isolated and abandoned. Of course I was angry. Why was it then, that I had continued, until meeting Afzal, feeling desire for Haroon? It seemed just as mysterious that I had barely hesitated to break my marriage vows. On the other hand, I couldn’t understand my feelings for Afzal. It couldn’t be love, could it? Our lovemaking took place in some otherworldly dimension. I was wildly attracted to him, but love? Again and again I asked myself who I loved and again and again I found myself confused. Why was I not taking steps to leave Haroon and go off with Afzal?

  An easy answer soon came to me. My instinct told me that Afzal couldn’t be trusted. If he had come to me so easily, what would prevent him from going off with any woman who presented herself? Had I allowed myself to leap so quickly into an illicit relationship with Afzal because I knew somehow that I couldn’t count on him? Though I’d had my suffering with Haroon, I was enough of a traditionalist to believe that marriage was for life. I couldn’t bring myself to live with the disgrace of divorce, as Parul did. And we had been married such a short time. Surely things could get better. That being the case, why wasn’t I content to wait things out with Haroon instead of turning to another man? For days, I struggled with my conscience, and at last the bou won out. I did love my husband, I decided. But there was something else nagging at me. I had to find release from the mental and emotional prison in which tradition had incarcerated me. Suddenly a shocking thought came into my mind. What if I became pregnant by Afzal, not by Haroon? My child would be the fruit of my independence.

  In our conversations about our lives and the women she treated, Sebati and I had often discussed women’s cycles and the times when they are most fertile. I decided that I would remain aloof from Haroon during those days. I would therefore not be offering him a body ready to conceive, but a fallow womb instead. It would be my pleasure to watch him wait foolishly, day after day, for his child to begin. As I thought about my plan, I had no guilt—I was not a loose woman, I was merely taking my revenge, getting even. Except for this deception, I followed all the rules of society. I took care of Haroon and his family, kept them happy and well-fed while living a desolate, friendless existence. I had the right to claim something in return.

  A couple of days after I made this decision, my mother called and asked me to come home. My sister Nupur’s daughter was having a birthday party, and Nupur would be in Wari for a week. I was unenthusiastic—I didn’t want to be kept from Afzal. Hearing I was reluctant, Ma sent my father to Haroon’s office to seek his permission. That very evening Haroon returned home. “Why not go? A week seems long, but why don’t you go for the
party at least?” I was silent.

  “Have you suddenly lost your enthusiasm for Wari?” he asked. “You’ve been asking to go, and they want you so much. I’ll come with you.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Haroon assumed I was angry with Nupur and was pleased that I seemed to have cooled toward my family. It was what he had always wanted. And then, days later, Amma suggested I visit Auntie Kumud, and I asked Haroon if I should.

  “Of course you must. Ma wants to take you along.” And so I went over to Auntie Kumud’s house, my head dutifully covered. My family, especially Nupur, were hurt and mystified that I had refused their invitation and assumed I had finally surrendered irreversibly to my in-laws. My friend Parul called to give me the news. My mother was weeping silently over it, she told me, and my father sat morose by the hour. Nupur was so agitated she had slapped her little girl.

  “How did you get my phone number, Parul?”

  “Nupur gave it to me.”

  “Did they ask you to call to tell me how they felt?”

  “Not really—in fact Nupur was reluctant to give me your number. I had to beg for it.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, oh, the poor dear! I haven’t seen her for so long! She lives in Dhaka, yet I feel she’s as far away as Mumbai! I just want to hear her voice.”

  “Do you think I’m unhappy?”

  “Why should I think that? You married for love, didn’t you? You must be happy, no?”

  “I’m happy, wondrously happy, running my husband’s house! Now we are looking forward to having a baby and we don’t want to be away from each other for even one night! Besides, it’s not proper to visit one’s parents so often.”

  “You’ve hardly been here,” Parul exclaimed. “How would being with your parents for one night interrupt your plans for pregnancy?”

  “It would,” I insisted. “If I see my mother’s face, I’ll produce a girl child. My mother had only girls—I mustn’t risk anything so inauspicious. I want to give birth to a son, not daughters!”