Sometimes, he does not theorize at all, does not diagnose my anger and develop his conjectures.
These are the things that happen when there is an insect inside your head. Mandapoochi di. It digs and crawls and squirms and gets restless and your thoughts go in all directions.
When it is not depression, when it is not this restless insect flying around in my brain and eating away all the softer parts that programme me to be an obedient wife, he blames it on the demons that have possessed me.
* *
Depression is not the only context in which he diagnoses me as being middle-class. On the rare occasion where sex leads to an involuntary moan in bed, he tells me to shut the fuck up, and he stops the act itself, as if to punish me for putting my pleasure before his. What follows is an inter-coital discourse on the class analysis of sexual behaviour. You are making a spectacle out of love. You are screaming because this is a performance for you.
As if to confirm his suspicions, he hits the boy who comes once a week to water the rows of leather-leafed croton plants in the garden, accusing him of voyeurism. His paranoia takes on newer forms. He obsessively fills the keyhole of the connecting rooms with chewing gum. He rolls blankets and wads them in the little space under the doors. He is soundproofing the rooms as best as he can. One day, when he finds the chewing gum gone from the keyhole, he waits for the gardener boy and lashes him mercilessly with a length of hosepipe. I try to reason with him that perhaps ants or rats might have taken the gum. He doesn’t believe in any possible or passable explanation. He believes in eliminating any evidence that we have sex.
This reaches a stage where our foreplay begins on the bed, and shifts to the floor to stop the creaking of the bedstead matching the rhythm of our bodies.
Sex with this man is the death of spontaneity. Sex is the opposite of intimacy because the more he worries about the noise-question, the more he obsesses about the gardener, the less and less aware I become of pleasure itself.
* *
I make an effort to change the effects of his conditioning. I do not enter into the complicated domain of rights theory – knowing that the minute I say ‘It is my right,’ the idea will be shouted down before I have finished the sentence. I opt to talk to him about my sexual moaning as an inevitability, as a natural occurrence, as something that we are programmed to do as human beings. I read to him the lines from The Vagina Monologues: I realized moans were best when they caught you by surprise, they came out of this hidden mysterious part of you that was speaking its own language. I realized that moans were, in fact, that language. I drag the weight of my linguistics education to ram home the point. This is a function of language, I say. Roman Jakobson came up with six functions of language – I do not remember the names of each of them – but this is one of them. This is the emotive function. This is how our languages are designed, this is hardwired into us, this is how we express ourselves at our most primal level.
Hearing me, he looks lost. To understand this function of language is beyond my husband. I try listing examples that exist beyond human beings: the mad songs of cuckoos in their mating season. The soft, low notes of a lonely whale. The deathly howl of cats. He does not get it.
In his rule book – sown by patriarchy, watered by feudalism, manured by a selective interpretation of Communism – a woman should not moan. That is how history steals her voice.
* *
To cast out the demon, even the kindest Tamil witch-doctors believe that the possessed woman must be whipped. It does not matter if the woman screams, because the belief is that the demon leaves her through her mouth. Sometimes the whipping continues until she is silent and no longer able to scream. Sometimes the whipping goes on all night, until the woman collapses, unconscious. Unless the possessed woman is beaten, it is believed that the demon in her does not enter into a discussion, it does not answer questions, it evades revealing its identity. In our marriage, my husband is the witch-doctor. He wants to drive out the demons that he thinks have possessed me. In the absence of bunches of fresh neem leaves to strike me with – bitter, serrated, midnight-green – he uses makeshift substitutes: my Mac’s power cord, his leather belt, twisted electrical cables. My demons are not happy. They do not want to leave me to the mercy of this man. They decide to stay.
* *
When he hits me, the most frightening part is not the pain and the possible scarring and the perverted sense of shame. It is not in knowing that I’m defeated, or in the realization that I am not physically strong enough to match him blow for blow, that I cannot teach him a lesson never to mess with me.
When he hits me, the terror follows from the instinct that this will go further, that this does not end easily, that today it is my arms that he is punching, but tomorrow it will be my hair that he will wind around his palm to drag me through the rooms, the next day it will be my backbone that will endure a shattering blow, the day after that it will be my head on which his angry fists will descend.
When he hits me, these thoughts pile on in quick succession.
When he hits me, the terror flows from the fear that today he uses his bare hands, but tomorrow he could wield a heavy-buckled belt, he could grab an iron rod, he could throw a chair, that he could break open my head against a wall.
Every day, I inch closer to death, to dying, to being killed, to the fear that I will end up in a fight whose result I cannot reverse.
I know that he knows this too.
The use of force is always to signal the impending threat of greater force. The fear that he seeks to instill in me is never the actual act itself, but the fear of where the act can lead to. What I see is what I am made to foresee.
When he hits me, and I do this every time he hits me, I cry aloud: ‘This is the last time. Forgive me. Give me this last chance. This will never happen again.’
I think what I mean is not ‘This (mistake) will never happen again’ because I know my husband well enough to know that he will endlessly find mistakes in what I do. I think my desperate cry is actually the promise that I seek from him, from his cruelty and his short temper, from his violence and his chastisement, as if by saying from my lips ‘This will never happen again’ I expect him to echo and match that sentiment, I expect that this cessation of whatever misdemeanour on my part will be countered and compensated by a cessation of violence on his part, and whenever I cry ‘This will never happen again’, I’m actually declaring a ceasefire on behalf of both of us.
That is not how peace is born, I lack all experience to know this crucial fact.
* *
I tell my parents about the violence. I want to leave. I cannot take this anymore. It has only been a handful of months, but I feel defeated. They take turns convincing me to stay.
* *
My father on the phone:
What is going on? Well, that is common. It is a matter of ego. I know you, you are my daughter, you do not like to lose a fight. The marriage is a give and take. Listen to him. He only means well. Do not raise your voice. Do not talk back. Yes, I know. It is difficult. But remember, only if you respond he is going to talk back and things escalate. Silence is a shield and it is also a weapon. Learn how to use it. Why else do we say, ‘amaidhiya ponga’? Silence is peace. You cannot make peace unless you hold your tongue. Yes. Anyway, don’t trouble your mother about this. It will upset her for no reason. Take care.
* *
My father on the phone:
Yes, I know, I know. I told her you called. I said you wanted to talk to her. I have no reason to lie to you, dear. No, I am not protecting her. Is that what you think of me? You do not live here anymore so you have forgotten how busy it gets. There is not even five minutes to spare. We have not had any time to even talk to each other. You take care. Be a smart girl. There is someone at the door. I am going now.
* *
My mother on the phone:
Why, dear, why? It hasn’t been long at all. The first year is the worst year. Tell me about it. It is maddening, it w
ill drive you to suicide. You will be wondering what you are doing with him. I survived it. It was not easy, but over time you forget all the sadness.
* *
My father on the phone:
Is that what he actually said? Rascal. Is this what his Communism has come to? You should cut off his balls and send them back to where he came from. It is becoming impossible to find good young men. Maybe after you both move back to Chennai, we will be in a position to help. I don’t know what he does, but perhaps, this is how he spends his time all day, planning what he is going to fight with you about? Keep him occupied. Okay, don’t worry I will ask your mother to call you back. You take care.
* *
My mother on the phone:
All change is slow. A marriage is not magic.
You will have to give him time. He will come around.
* *
My father on the phone:
Yes. Yes. That is not very nice. Listen. Patience. Patience. Porumai. Tolerance. Just tolerate. Sahippu thanmai. This is not a time to be selfish. If you break off your marriage, everyone in town will mock me. They will say his daughter ran away in less than six months. It will reflect on your upbringing. This is not what I intended for my daughter. You have no idea what a father goes through. A father of a daughter – that is a special kind of punishment. We pay the price. Please. Think about us this once.
* *
My mother on the phone:
So you want to be like all these writers you read about and those writers whom you call your friends – single and sleeping around with anyone they please. That happens only in stories. I have friends who tried to be like that. Not writers, just women. They died very sad deaths. They died alone.
* *
My father on the phone:
What now? Listen to me. I am an old man. I have seen many people, many marriages. These problems arise, these problems disappear. These problems will cease to exist when you have children. Do not talk too much. Never in history has anything been solved by constantly talking. Good character resides only where anger resides. These two are inseparable. His anger and rage are misdirected. He means well. Do not drag these problems home to us, do not let these wounds fester. Learn to obey. You can question his decisions later. I have said this to you a million times.
* *
My mother on the phone:
What can I say? I can suggest you leave him, start again. How long would that cycle go on? What if you fail again, with another man? What is the guarantee that he will not be another monster? Finding the perfect man is a myth. Do not believe in it, work with what you have.
* *
My father on the phone:
He is hitting you? The bastard. Ah, my daughter. I would have imagined you hitting him. Just try to avoid conflict as much as possible. What can we do? We could talk to him and take your side but he will assume the whole family is against him. That will turn him against you even more. You are alone as it is. Yeah. So, if we talk to him about this, we will have to be on his side de facto, but that will make him feel vindicated, and he will crush you all the more. Our interfering will not benefit you anyway. But remember, we are with you. Clench your teeth and wait it out. Take care of yourself, take care of him. Tell him that I sent him my regards.
* *
I listen to my father’s advice:
‘Hold your tongue. He is your husband, not your enemy.’
‘Do not talk back. You can never take back what you have said.’
‘Your word-wounds will never heal, they will remain long after both of you have patched up and made peace.’
‘It takes two to fight. He cannot fight by himself. It will drain his energy, to fight alone.’
‘Do not talk too much. Never in history has anything been solved by constantly talking.’
‘Don’t you understand? Silence is golden.’
I climb into the incredible sadness of silence. Wrap its slowness around my shoulders, conceal its shame within the folds of my sari. Make it a vow, as if my life hinged upon it, as if I was not a wife in Mangalore but a nun elsewhere, cloistered and clinging to her silence to make sense of the world.
To stay silent is to censor all conversation. To stay silent is to erase individuality. To stay silent is an act of self-flagellation because this is when the words visit me, flooding me with their presence, kissing my lips, refusing to dislodge themselves from my tongue.
I do not allow myself anything more than the essential necessities of domestic existence. The questions about what my husband wants to eat, when he wants to be woken up, whether the electricity bill has been paid. The minimal interaction bestows an almost formal character to our marriage. He cannot step across that line.
I am unfazed when he assumes that this silence stems from my defeat. He sees it as a sign of victory. He praises me for realizing my folly, for listening to him, for finally coming to my senses. I do not dispute his claim. I do not accept it either. I simply stare at him with vacant eyes, give him a vacant nod.
It irritates him that he cannot walk away with the trophy of victory. He brushes off my wordlessness as childish, and maintains that, sooner rather than later, I will have to reform myself and repent my mistakes. He cannot push me any further than this, and so, he retreats.
My silence settles on us like incessant rain. It stills the humdrum of the everyday. It leaves us stranded in our own little puddles.
I enjoy this brief interlude. My silence becomes an invincible shield. He attempts to penetrate its surface with every conceivable tactic to provoke me into conversation, but he fails. He is left listening to his own words, building his own arguments, eating his own anger.
He reads this as rejection. He is quick to turn the tables on me. He accuses me of inhabiting a world in my mind, a world where I am cohabiting with ex-lovers, a world where I have left him. He asks me to stop leading a double life, tells me that if I believe that I am Andal, living with some imaginary Thirumaal, I have no place in his home. He offers to check me into a mental hospital.
I am unwilling to address his accusations, unwilling to face the consequences of an unwise retort. I do not say anything in my defence. To talk to him, as he is raging against me, would only feed his fury. He is in no mood to listen in any case.
He kicks me in the stomach. ‘Prove it!’ he yells as I double over. ‘Prove it to me that you are my wife. Prove it to me that you are not thinking of another man. Or I will prove it for you.’
My hair is gathered up in a bunch in his hand now. He is lifting me by my hair alone. All the blood is rushing to my head, my thighs fight to feel the hard wood of the chair. I am in pain. He drags me from the table and into the bedroom. I feel the heavy, funereal drumbeats of marriage as he forces my sari up around my waist. They grow louder and faster, restless in their hurry to drown out everything else. I close my eyes now, afraid, the way I did during the wedding ceremony, when rice was flung at us and prayers were chanted. The fire that made our union sacred and eternal now blazes in the parting of my thighs.
There are no moans, only screams. Screams precede my speech. Screams help me transition from silence to begging him to stop. His reply is like water bursting a dam. ‘Why do you talk to me now? Why? How did you find all your words all of a sudden? So, this is the miracle cure to your silence, is it? If you wanted to be fucked like a bitch, you could have asked me. See, you have got your speech back. See, you have been cured. Now keep your mouth shut and don’t wake the neighbours. You are a whore. Thevidiya. You should know that. Stop crying, there is nothing to cry about. I should be crying for marrying a whore. You are a whore. This is what whores do. This is why I don’t treat you like a wife. Stay still. You don’t want it this way? How many men took you from behind? How many? Would you even remember? Don’t fight or this is going to hurt you. Fucking cheap whore. Next time you taunt me with your silence I will tear your fucking cunt apart. Now say sorry, bitch. Say sorry. Yes. That’s it. You will remember this. You will never forget this less
on.’
X
Whore, he spits, at she who keeps
thousands of her lovers hidden.
Inside the pillow covers,
the bedspread, the rolled-up mat,
the bookshelf, the attic or the spice box?
His previous lovers
never caused such betrayal.
Nights thicken into a coir-rope
spun out of reproaches.
All his fear:
Will she just knead the dust
to bake a man? That too, with a penis
as large as an elephant’s trunk?
MALATHI MAITHRI,
‘THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT’
I never understood rape until it happened to me. It was a concept – of savagery, of violence, of violation, of disrespect. I had read my share of Kate Millett and Susan Brownmiller but nothing prepared me for how to handle it. Within a marriage, fighting back comes with its consequences. The man who rapes me is not a stranger who runs away. He is not the silhouette in the car park, he is not the masked assaulter, he is not the acquaintance who has spiked my drinks. He is someone who wakes up next to me. He is the husband for whom I have to make coffee the following morning. He is the husband who can shrug it away and tell me to stop imagining things. He is the husband who can blame his actions on unbridled passion the next day, while I hobble from room to room.
I begin to learn that there are no screams that are loud enough to make a husband stop. There are no screams that cannot be silenced by the shock of a tight slap. There is no organic defence that can protect against penetration. He covers himself with enough lubricant to slide past all my resistance. My legs go limp. I come apart.
* *
How do I explain to anyone this savage rite? Where do I look for metaphors? How do I let another person know how it feels to be raped within a marriage? Death is all that I can think about when I lie there. Death which brings with it many meaningless rituals. To the Tamils, the most important ritual is the ceremonial feeding of the corpse. Before the body is hauled to the cremation ground, before the distant mourners start arriving and weeping, before drunken drums take to the streets, next of kin place grains of uncooked rice in the mouth of the dead body. Motionless, devoid of touch taste sight smell sound, the corpse feels nothing. It lies there, playing the role of the obedient half of an obligatory ritual, as close relatives drop white rice through its parted lips. It is a feeling of unfeeling. It is how I feel when my husband’s kisses fall into my mouth as he parts my legs and begins pushing.
When I Hit You Page 10
