The Sweetness of Tears

by Nafisa Haji

  Two days before the wedding, Sharif Muhammad Chacha, Abbas Uncle’s driver, knocked at our door. Rather than visit with his sister, Macee, in the kitchen, he asked to speak to me.

  “Sharif Muhammad Chacha! You’re back from Bombay! Just in time for the wedding,” I said, hearing the sound of happiness in my own voice, which only made me happier.

  But Sharif Muhammad Chacha didn’t return my smile. His face was set in stone, his eyes fixed on the pattern of the tiles on the floor, at our feet.

  “Is something wrong, Sharif Muhammad Chacha?”

  He shook his head, the seriousness of his face beginning to frighten me.

  “Is everything all right at home? With your family?”

  “Yes, Deena Bibi. My sister tells me that your mother has gone out.”

  “Yes. She has gone visiting. Did you want to see her?”

  “Yes. No. I want to speak to you. I wish I had been here earlier, Deena Bibi, to tell you what I have to say.”

  “What is it, Sharif Muhammad Chacha? Tell me.”

  “Deena Bibi. I came back from Bombay. And they told me you’re to be married. To my sayt’s son. To Akram Sayt.”

  I nodded, not sure I wanted him to continue.

  “Deena Bibi. You must not marry him.”

  “What? What are you saying? Why not?”

  “He—Akram Sayt—it pains me to say this, Deena Bibi. They should have told you. But my sister says they have not. This is not something I am proud of. To speak against my employer’s son. What I have to tell you, I’ve never even told to my sister, until today. If she had known before, it would have been better. My master has been good to me, and I owe him my discretion. But before I worked for him, I worked for your father, Deena Bibi. That also counts for something. And if he had been alive—your father—I would have come and spoken to him. He would not have allowed this marriage. If he’d known what I have to say. But he’s not here. And it’s my duty to tell you. Deena Bibi, Akram Sayt is not a suitable husband. For you. He—he’s not right. He’s not well. In his mind. He’s mad. He’s crazy. They sent him away. To big doctors abroad. And now he’s back. He’s better. But still— you cannot marry him, Deena Bibi. You cannot.”

  I couldn’t say anything. What could I say? What could I believe? This couldn’t be true. Sharif Muhammad Chacha was wrong. He had to be. In a voice totally devoid of the happiness I’d been so conscious of moments before, hard and cold, I said, “Be careful, Sharif Muhammad Chacha. Be sure of what you’re saying.”

  “Don’t ask me to explain. These are not matters that I understand. Only that he’s not well. When I realized—that they had told you nothing—I knew I had to come and tell you.”

  I was silent. Standing in the ruins of a broken fairy tale. Trying to pretend that I didn’t hear what I was hearing. There were only two days left before the wedding. No. No. Sharif Muhammad Chacha was wrong. I knew the truth. I knew Akram. Nothing about him had anything to do with what this old, bearded man in front of me—only a servant, after all—was saying. It was slander. Yes, that was what it was.

  “Sharif Muhammad Chacha. No. What you say isn’t true. I don’t know why you’re doing this. What you have against Abbas Uncle. Against Akram. But you’re lying. Go away. Go, now. And don’t repeat what you’ve told me. Never repeat it. If you do, I’ll tell your master. I’ll tell him what you’ve said.”

  “No, Deena Bibi. Please don’t do that. I’ve come to you, risking everything. Please.”

  Gentling my voice with an effort I felt in every muscle, I said, “No. I don’t know why you’ve said what you’ve said. But I won’t tell, Sharif Muhammad Chacha. Just leave. Pretend that this conversation never happened.” His skull cap crushed in his hand, giving me one last beseeching look over his shoulder, Sharif Muhammad Chacha went away.

  After a long while, Macee came and stood beside me. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “My brother is not a liar, Deena Bibi. He speaks the truth. You must tell your mother what he said. Let her decide.”

  “No! No, Macee. Leave it be.”

  “But—Deena Bibi—Beti—you are not thinking clearly.”

  “No, Macee! Don’t tell her any of this nonsense. That’s what it is. Nonsense! Some kind of misunderstanding. Leave it alone. And keep it to yourself.”

  I wonder, sometimes, what might have happened if Macee had disobeyed my command. Would anything have changed? Would I have wanted anything to be different? What an impossible question to ask! The kind of question that consumes us, if we let it. What if Sharif Muhammad Chacha had never come to say what he did? Would I have later luxuriated in my innocence? It would be easier, I think, to play the victim. To see myself as some kind of Rochester, duped into a marriage I would never otherwise have consented to, to let myself feel as powerless as I would have been then. But I was never powerless, no matter how I would have liked to think of myself as so later. It would have been so convenient—to blame everyone but myself. By telling me what he did, Sharif Muhammad Chacha made me a party to all that happened. He saved me, in a way, even though he felt he’d failed at trying. If I was deceived, I had a hand in the deception. As it was, both Macee and Sharif Muhammad Chacha did as I asked—no, commanded—them to do. Both of them kept silent. Just as I did.

  On my wedding day, I spent the afternoon at the beauty salon, primped, pampered, and robed, like a living doll, only to find myself unrecognizable in the mirror. At the nikkah ceremony, I was seated on the floor of a raised platform at the front of a room full of ladies at the mehfil, having already signed the relevant documents earlier in the day at home. Before the mullah took my verbal permission to represent me and my interests—through a crack in a curtain beside me, on the other side of which sat Akram, similarly seated in front of a crowd of men—Akram’s mother came and whispered in my ear, “Deena, my dear, I don’t know if anyone told you. But there are two times when Allah especially listens to the prayers of a woman. One is during her wedding ceremony and the other is during the pains of labor when she gives birth. Please, Deena, when the nikkah begins, please pray for Akram. For all of us. For our health and for yours. And for Akram.” Akram’s mother put her fingers gently under my chin, tilting my face up so that my eyes met hers, as they were not supposed to meet anyone’s on this day of my wedding. “Please, Deena. Don’t forget. Especially for him.”

  I nodded wordlessly, suddenly frightened at the possibility that what Sharif Muhammad Chacha had said was true. Frightened at what I had already agreed to by signing the documents in the mullah’s hand.

  Someone placed a copy of the Quran, open, in front of me, instructing me to keep my eyes on it, on the words of the page my eyes had fallen on, during the ceremony. Around my wrist, my mother had twisted a string of prayer beads, a tasbeeh, the color of dried mud, made from the sand of Karbala, where the blood of Husain and his family was shed, a somber contrast to the sparkling bangles, red and gold, that tinkled when I moved my hand. Then everyone fell silent for the exchange of words between my mullah and Akram’s—all in Arabic and therefore unintelligible to me, the groom, and most of the guests. When the solemn interaction between mullahs was done, all of the women in the community came to give their congratulations, embracing me with kisses and hugs, greeting my mother and Akram’s with cries of mubarak. It was too late to be frightened. I was married. For better or for worse, as they said in the American movies I had seen at the Capri Cinema.

  From there, accompanied by a distant young cousin who played the part of the brother I didn’t have and carried a velvet-wrapped Quran carefully over my head for every step I took, my bridesmaid, who was another cousin, a young woman, recently married, and Akram’s best man, a cousin of his, ushered us to the familiar, finned American car, which was dressed, like I was, in flowers and tinsel, driven by Sharif Muhammad Chacha. He drove us to the Beach Luxury Hotel, where guests gathered for a dinner reception. There, on the stage, Akram’s mother tied an Imam zamin to my arm—a silk, embroidered armband with money sewn ins
ide, which would later be distributed as alms. Ma did the same to Akram. We exchanged rings. Guests made their way up the stage to greet us, to wish us well, and to pose for pictures.

  “Ye-es. Ple-ase,” the photographer sang out in warning each time he clicked the camera, the giant, old-fashioned flash blinding me hundreds of times throughout the evening. At the end of the reception, though Akram’s mother invited Ma to come home with us and witness the ceremonies involved in welcoming me to my new home, Ma refused, saying good-bye tearfully as my bridesmaid stepped forward to quickly mop up the tears that threatened to spill out of the wells of my own eyes. She went home with the sudden abundance of loving relatives who had stepped forward when news of my engagement to the son of Abbas Ali Mubarak had circulated, the same relatives who had been especially scarce when Abu died, when we had needed them most.

  When we entered the compound of Abbas Uncle’s house, there was a white goat tethered in the side garden, which Sajida Auntie, who I now had to remember to call Mummy, made me and Akram touch. It would later be slaughtered, its meat distributed to the poor, our touch casting off the evil intentions of jealous eyes. At Akram’s side, I turned and was about to enter the house when I found myself suddenly lifted up in my husband’s arms.

  “Akram! What are you doing? Put her down!” his mother shrieked.

  “It’s tradition, Mummy.”

  “In Hollywood, maybe. Not our tradition!”

  Abbas Uncle stood inside the doorway, next to me, when Akram finally carried me over the threshold and set me down inside of the home that would now be mine, too. “Never mind, Sajida.” He laughed. “It’s a good tradition, I think.”

  We were led into the living room, filled with Akram’s closest friends and relatives, and seated on a sofa. A large tray of one-rupee coins was placed in front of me and I gathered as many as I could in both hands, to be given away for charity, to invite abundance into the lives of those who lived in this new home of mine. Everyone in the family lined up to give me jewelry, though I had been given much already. Another round of food and drink was served to the Mubarak relatives by the house servants. Akram’s cousins teased him, telling him to eat up for the strength and stamina he would need for what was still to come. Finally, my bridesmaid and Akram’s sister, Asma, now my sister-in-law, led me into the room that would be mine and his.

  Every piece of new furniture was perfectly placed, polka-dotted with the red of rose petals that seemed to have drizzled down on the dresser laden with French perfumes and on the large bed, where my bridesmaid now artfully arranged me, too. The air was pregnant with the cloying, clashing scents of perfume, sandalwood, and tuberoses. When my bridesmaid and Asma opened the door to let themselves out, I heard the loud negotiations going on just outside the door—Akram’s cousins rowdily refusing him entry until he met their monetary demands. I was too nervous to be flattered by how little he haggled, by how soon he was allowed admission. He closed the door carefully behind him, bolted the lock, and turned to face me. It was past three in the morning. We were alone for the first time.

  “Are you tired?”

  I had a hard time looking at him, focusing instead on the bangles on my wrists as I shook my head and said, “No.”

  “Neither am I. I know I should be. But I’m not. Does your foot hurt? Stiletto Auntie should be banned from all wedding stages in the future.”

  I laughed, remembering the friend of his mother who had unknowingly planted the pencil heel of her shoe in my foot, offering hearty congratulations as I tried not to wince. Akram had heard my soft sigh of relief as the woman turned to leave the stage, had leaned close to ask me what was wrong, and smiled sympathetically when I mumbled my complaint under my breath.

  “Let me have a look,” he said now, lifting my foot, gently unbuckling the strap of the golden sandal I wore, before setting my foot on his lap to examine it carefully. “Oh, Deena. You didn’t tell me she made it bleed!”

  The touch of his hand on my foot made me breathless. I looked at his fingers, noting the track of dried blood that they traced, a darker shade of red blending in with the fiery henna patterns on my feet. He stood up to get a damp towel and cleaned the wound. When he was done, he sat up, suddenly straight, and said, “This is what I’m supposed to do anyway, isn’t it? Where’s the basin? Ah, here it is.” He had found a steel bowl on a table beside the dresser, which he took into the bathroom to fill with water. When he came back, he bent to lift my other foot, removed the sandal, and washed my feet. “Now, what am I supposed to do? Save this water? To sprinkle in all the corners of the house?”

  “That’s the custom.”

  “Yes. For barkat, they say. For blessings and prosperity. Well, I must say—I, for one, enjoyed it. What’s next? Shall I wash your hair? Scrub your back in the bath? I like these traditions!”

  I laughed. “No. No more washing or bathing.”

  “Did you have the mehndi lady hide my initials in the pattern of henna on your hands?”

  “Of course.”

  He took my hands in his, but didn’t begin the search. Instead, he leaned his head in close to my face. “Does my hair smell like biryani? One of the aunties came and put her hand on my head to bless me after dinner. I don’t think she had washed her hands after eating,” he said with a shudder that made me laugh.

  “No. I don’t smell any food.”

  “It was a grand wedding, wasn’t it? Giving all the old gossips enough to talk about for weeks to come. Did you see Gulnaz Auntie? The way she bent forward to gape at your jewelry and then reached out to touch your necklace, to lift it and gauge its weight and value? I thought she would fall into your lap!”

  I fingered the necklace, part of a diamond set that had been sent over with the clothes I was wearing, on the day before the wedding. I wondered what my mother’s wedding jewelry had looked like—part of what she had sold off to finance my father’s business. Normally, the gifts I had received from Akram’s family would have flowed both ways. But no explanation was needed in our case. Everyone knew that our source of income was dry. The only gift my family had given to Akram was my father’s old watch, polished and shined, to be sure, but secondhand nonetheless. I had been surprised to see it on Akram’s wrist when he’d slipped the ring on my finger, never imagining that he would actually wear such a modest piece when I knew, from having seen them, that he owned far more expensive watches already.

  Suddenly, Akram was on his feet, pulling me up along with him. “Did you look around the room? While I was paying the kids off outside? No? Do you like the furniture? I ordered it myself.” He ran his hands along the dresser and then began to open drawers. “Come, see what’s inside. Beautiful clothes for you.” He opened the doors to the wardrobe and pulled out saris and joras. “I chose most of them myself. And you should thank me! You should have seen the old-fashioned stuff my mother would have liked.”

  “It’s all lovely.”

  “And the bathroom? Did you see that?” He led me to the door of the attached bathroom, our own private one, pointing out the fixtures, all imported, which he had chosen, the high ceilings, the intricate tile work. “You like it?”

  “Yes. It’s beautiful,” I said, thinking of the long walk across the courtyard at home to the one bathroom we shared, with its rough, cement finish, the antique geyser mounted at the top of the wall that worked less often than it failed, which Macee or I had to climb on a stool to relight, and the rusty chain-pull that operated the flush suspended from the tank overhead.

  “One more thing—a matter of business before pleasure,” Akram said, reaching into a drawer of the dresser. “It is tradition, also, I believe, for me to give you your bridal settlement before I make any demands of you over there.” He jerked his head, with a charming wink of his eye, toward the bed.

  “What? What’s this?” I asked, fingering the little book, the size of a passport, that he handed me.

  “It’s your bank book. For the account we’ve opened in your name. You’ll see the bala
nce is in order.” He was all business now.

  I didn’t say anything, didn’t open the book.

  “Deena. It’s your meher.”

  “But— I— an account?”

  He laughed. “Didn’t you read the nikkah-nama?” That was the marriage document I had signed before the wedding.

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Shame on you, Deena. No one ever taught you that you should never sign anything without reading it in full? All the fine print.”

  “But—” I didn’t know what to say. I had not read the document for our marriage before signing it. The traditional meher—a prenuptial settlement that is supposed to be a bride’s security against the possibility of a failed marriage—was often, in our culture, only a symbol. There were exceptions. I had even heard of weddings aborted over haggling, which turned to feuds, between the families of brides and grooms, about definitions of what was fair and what was extravagant. Among the people I knew, girls were encouraged to “forgive” these settlements, to tell their husbands on their wedding nights, “Never mind what you owe me.” This—an account in my name—was not something I had expected.

  Akram took the book from my hand and opened it, pointing to a balance that made me gasp. “My father is a stickler for these things, Deena. He believes that these laws of religion should be taken seriously. That money is yours. To do with as you wish.”

  It was enough money to pay off Abu’s debts. Enough for Ma to live on—if she was frugal—for years and years. I was thrilled at the thought of it. That this money was mine to give to her if I wished.

  “Thank you, Akram.”

  “You can’t thank me for what is your due,” Akram said gently, his hand on my shoulder, his eyes holding mine for a moment before I dropped them, overwhelmed. He let go of me and walked to the record player in the corner of the room, which I had not noticed before. He picked up the stack of albums there and shuffled through them for a moment, found the one he was looking for and held it up, saying, “You like Presley?”