Seven

by Farzana Doctor

  I stand on my toes to and scan the wives’ names. “Sharifa!”

  “Yes, you and his first wife share the same name. And see, your mother’s father, your nana,” he points two levels down, “is the grandchild of Abdoolally. Look, I’m here, I’m his grandchild, too; your nana and I were first cousins.”

  “So my daada and my nana are first cousins, too?” I imagine my two grandfathers growing up together.

  “Yes, but their parents were only half siblings. See?” He points back to the top of the chart. “They had different mothers — Abdoolally’s first wife and fourth wife.”

  I make notes in my book, digesting the confusing relationships.

  Now the red light moves down to my level. “And there you are, Sharifa.”

  “Where am I? Where am I?” Zee dances on her toes, straining to view the chart.

  “Oh, yes, Zeenat, you are related to this great man, too! But I still have to add you. I got a little behind on this project of late.” I know that’s code for his recent poor health; Tasnim Maasi told me that he grew depressed after he had a mild stoke last year.

  He fishes a marker out of his bedside table’s drawer and draws a careful line. He asks her birth year and prints Zeenat’s name.

  “Zeenat, you know something? You are part of the youngest generation of our family. You are the great-great-great-grandchild of Abdoolally!” He counts out the three “greats” on his fingers.

  “Wow!” She smiles at Kaaka. I doubt she truly comprehends, but she is caught up in his enthusiasm. I scan their two faces, imagining what he looked like at her age, and what she will look like at his. Even with eighty years between them, I can pick out a family resemblance, as I often do with members from my clan: here are the same prominent noses, oval faces, small chins.

  I ponder the top of the chart, aware that I am traversing a century and a half. No one who knew Abdoolally is still alive. We only have second-hand memories, family myths, and this grand wall chart to connect us all.

  “I’m going to get all this down on the Geno Tree website so we have a permanent record of your chart,” I tell Kaaka.

  “That’s wonderful. Use the modern technology, I say.”

  It is in my generation, close to the bottom of the wall, where the slanted lines of separation and divorce begin to appear on our tree. It’s still a powerful taboo, and I sometimes wonder if it’s one of the factors that kept Murtuza and I together four years ago; after that first terrible week of barely talking, our impulse, post-affair, was to seek help, and our second to remain cordial and respectful. Separation, while commonplace amongst our non-Bohra friends, is a still an abnormal rupture in our community.

  The chart shows four marital breakdowns. I don’t know the intimate worlds of these particular first and second cousins, but I’ve heard the rumours that circulated about Zareen in Columbus (her ex-husband was an alcoholic), Nabil in Toronto (his wife left him for a woman), Shabbir in Montreal (he and his wife just didn’t get along), and Shireen in Paramus (her husband assaulted her).

  I trace the solid line between me and Murtuza and say a silent, grateful Al-Humdulillah.

  Is it a coincidence that these divorces are recent and amongst us diasporic kids rather than those in India? Dad used to opine that my peers have too many options. He lamented that we didn’t hold the values needed to stay committed in times of stress, and that by selecting non-Bohra mates, our relationships would be vulnerable to increased conflict and stress. Even now, after his death, I want to argue that Zareen’s drinking ex-husband is Bohra. As is Nabil’s lesbian ex-wife.

  I notice that Kaaka has neglected to record Dad’s death with the standard genealogist’s X. I take a deep breath, pick up the black marker, and scribe it myself. I know they will both appreciate the accuracy.

  I step away from the tree, gazing back and forth to my laptop’s screen to ensure I haven’t missed anyone. Then I see it: a faint pair of lines crossing the link between Abdoolally and his third wife, Zehra.

  ---/-/---

  I climb onto a chair to look more closely. So the rumour Mom told me was true! But why are the markings so noncommittal and almost unnoticeable? No children branch off from their names, their union a dead end.

  In the living room, Kaaka and Zee sit reading, like long-time companions enjoying their quiet. The New Yorker, a gift I thought Kaaka might appreciate, is spread open on his lap, his lips moving slightly as he absorbs the text. Zee looks up from her second grade workbook, where she’s filled in line after line of printing practice. I compliment her on her tidy letters.

  “Are you done, Mom?”

  I wipe her damp forehead with my sleeve and tell her to go sit directly under the ceiling fan; my girl isn’t tolerating Mumbai’s heat well. “Yes, I think so. Now I just have to get more people to fill in their missing branches.”

  “We do have a very large extended family. I was only really able to fit a certain number of people up there,” Kaaka says, pointing to his bedroom.

  “I have a question. Everyone tells me that Abdoolally’s wives died in childbirth, but I see that he and his third wife, Zehra, divorced.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s true. But we don’t know anything about her or why they split.”

  “Really? It’s a mystery?”

  “Or just poor record-keeping. Also I suppose people don’t like to speak ill of the dead …” he says with slight smile.

  “What do you think happened?”

  “The cause would be similar to today’s causes.” He looks over to Zee, and I do, too. She draws in her notebook but is probably also listening intently. “Only the problem would have had to be quite extreme.”

  “One of them would have had to be very poorly behaved and the other one very unhappy.”

  “Correct.” He carefully places a bookmark into his magazine before closing it.

  Later that evening, I wonder about the divorce. Back then, people tolerated alcoholism, incompatibility, infidelity, and abuse rather than suffer the shame of divorce. Or at least women did.

  I scribble a note in my book: find Zehra.

  TEN

  Bombay, 1877

  He’d prayed for her, day after day. After completing namaaz he’d remain rooted to his musallah, sending his entreaties skyward.

  “Please bring me a wife. Someone kind. Smart, loving … and oh, yes, beautiful.”

  Behind his supplication was not just a simple, romantic hope. There were practicalities; he knew he wasn’t the most desirable groom. He’d saved and saved, and while he’d managed to purchase a simple one-bedroom flat for himself and his mother, he was still only an overseer at the printing press where he worked. And he’d heard from his friend Mohammed that many girls’ families expected a large meher, a gift he and his mother would not be able to afford.

  “There’s someone I think we should approach,” Amta, his mother, advised him one morning. “The father is a pencilwala in the bazaar.” She gulped back her tea and waited. Abdoolally nodded, remembering the humble shop he’d stopped at maybe twice. The man who worked there had a brusque manner.

  “He and his wife are known to be devout. They have six daughters and two sons, and having gone through the costly marriage rituals now thrice, they may no longer be fussy for the fourth daughter.” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Who is she?” He set down his cup.

  “Her name is Sharifa. She is fifteen already. She has a pleasant face. I’m told she cooks well.”

  “And the personality?” He bowed his head when he saw his mother’s nostrils flare.

  “Personality! Such modern ideas you have! You don’t need to concern yourself with that. She is young. She will mould to your personality, no?” She stood, cleared the cups away, the conversation over.

  That week, Amta’s friend invited both her and Sharifa’s mother for a gathering, orchestrating an informal visit. It was there that Sharifa’s mother, understanding the nature of the occasion, made it clear that she and her husband would be happy with
a small meher and even the parahmni, the wedding dress that the groom’s family would supply, could be a less expensive gaghra choli.

  And that was that. For the next three months, he and his mother scraped and borrowed what they could for the simple ceremony and feast. During the festivities, while he and Sharifa sat on a dais, he glanced at her shyly, her orna obscuring a full view. Did she have a pleasant face?

  Later, after bathing, she came into the bedroom and sat on the bed beside him. He turned to her, taking in her round face, the dimples that revealed themselves with her nervous smile, her long-lashed dark brown eyes. Finally alone with his bride on his wedding night, a moment he’d imagined so many times over the previous months, he realized he had no idea what to do next.

  He held her hands, the swirling orange mehndhi on her palms making him light-headed. But then she placed one hand on his cheek and looked directly into his eyes.

  Her gaze steadied him.

  ELEVEN

  “The man had four wives?” Fatema clicks open a pistachio shell with her teeth, separating it from the nut with her tongue. I’m visiting her at her Worli flat, eager to share what I’ve learned so far.

  “Yeah! We don’t know much about them.”

  “No, we never do.” She spits out the shell. “Men get all the attention, don’t they? Welcome to India.” She lounges on her sectional couch, stretched out like a queen. But royalty she’s not; she’s just home from a ten-hour workday. There are dark semicircles under her eyes. I have similar ones, but not from overwork. Mumbai’s noisy nights — filled with fitful honking and yelling — have kept me awake.

  “I’ll keep digging. By the way, men dominate history in the U.S., too. The women get erased.”

  “Not surprising,” Fatema mutters, helping herself to another nut from the bowl. She gestures for me to do the same, but I shake my head. Pistachios are too much work.

  “There’s not all that much available about him, either, to tell you the truth. Very little online or in books. Plus everyone I’ve lined up to interview is too young to have ever met him. I’ll be gathering memories of memories. How can they be accurate?”

  “They might be, but probably not. Wait, let me guess, you’ve been told the old rags-to-riches story a dozen times now?” I nod and she chuckles. “Our family adores that trope. After all, most of us are businesspeople and have the same aspirations.”

  “It’s your story, too.”

  “Not really. I had half the money from my father’s business to start me off. Correction, my parents’ business. All successful businessmen have quietly toiling women behind them. They look after their homes, their children,” she said pointing to her chest, her eyes turning glassy.

  “True.” Fatema doesn’t talk much about her parents; it’s been a quarter of a decade since their fatal car accident, and their mention still upsets her.

  “Anyway, what I mean is that Abdoolally’s wives didn’t get any credit for his success, just as my mother didn’t for my father’s business. His wives must have kept him fed, tidy, probably sane, too. Maybe they even advised him. I used to overhear my parents going over sticky situations with suppliers.”

  “Who helps you?” It’s something I’ve always been curious about; Fatema is so solitary.

  “I’ve had many helpers over the years. Business mentors from college.” She bites into another pistachio shell. “But no wife! But that’s fine, I have paid help.” She smiles, referring to her driver, maid, and cook.

  “They do keep you fed and tidy.” I gesture to her well-pressed kurta and trousers, still fresh-looking despite the long day.

  “And sane! What would I do without them? Maybe I am like Abdoolally myself. Guilty of taking all the credit when there are people —”

  “Quietly toiling behind you?”

  “Correct!”

  “And is there anyone special in your life now?” I know to keep the question neutral; Fatema has had relationships with men and women over the years. From what I can tell, none of them have been long-term.

  “No, no one right now. I enjoy being unattached.”

  “It has its advantages.” I turn my gaze to Fatema’s spotless six-star flat. I can’t remember what it’s like to not be attached to a husband and child.

  One of the relatives I’ve arranged to meet is Fareeda Kaaki, whom I visit the next day. She’s my father’s aunt, and Abbas Kaaka’s widowed sister-in-law. When I was a girl, I used to admire her long hair and ruby-red lipstick; I think she was the only elder who wore makeup. Today she still has long hair, braided up and covered by a plain brown orna.

  “Yes, there were four wives,” she confirms as I reach for my notebook.

  “But not all at the same time,” I lead with the familiar joke.

  “No, we are not a community that practises polygamy.” She returns my smile. “But you know maybe some of the wives would be interested in more than one husband. Hah! What’s that called, now?”

  “Polyandry.” I laugh along with my grand-aunt.

  “Yes, pol-y-an-dree.” She tries on the word.

  “Really? You think Bohra women would like that?” I wonder what other scandalous talk she might allow to leak out.

  “No, I’m being silly, only. Where did you say you live? Amrika?”

  “Yes, New York.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s correct. Now what was I saying?”

  “Abdoolally had four wives.”

  “Back then hygiene and medical care was not good. This is why he wanted one of his charities to be a maternity home — to help women more safely give birth, to stop all the unnecessary deaths through childbearing.” She gestures to her pelvis and I think about this tiny woman bearing six children. I wonder if she lost any of her babies in miscarriage, childbirth, or early childhood, as many of her generation did.

  “True. But … did you know? He and his third wife divorced.”

  “No, never heard that.” She frowns and looks up at the ceiling for a long time.

  “So you didn’t hear about Zehra? You don’t have any stories about her?” I stifle my disappointment. She shakes her head.

  “So just the first two died in childbirth, then. That’s bad enough.”

  Just then my body recalls the ache of Dad’s loss and a grey sludge settles on my chest. Mom suffered much more, was depressed for weeks, refusing to leave the house or wear anything except tracksuits until she made the decision to pack up the house and sell it. Had Abdoolally suffered so when he’d lost his wives?

  “I don’t know how anyone would cope up with such a thing.” Fareeda Kaaki shakes her head, as though mirroring my thoughts. “But he was a strong man, and he had his work. My mother used to say that he was a cool-minded person, not very emotional at all, or at least not the type to show anyone his sadness. Most of the men in the family are like that, really.”

  “I’ve never thought about that.” Had I ever seen Dad cry?

  “Did anyone tell you that his fourth wife was the widow of one of his workers?”

  “No. Tell me about that.”

  “Oh, yes. She would have been a bad match for him, because he liked to read, was intelligent, educated, and she couldn’t even read. But he must have respected her deceased husband quite a lot. Perhaps they were friends, I don’t know. Anyway, he agreed to marry her because she was destitute. That was an admirable thing to do, a very Islamic thing to do. You know, he was known to be a kind man, someone who would ignore the authority of his position and sit to eat in the thaal with anyone. I just realized that you have the same name, correct? Sharifa.” She pauses while I scribble down her thoughts.

  “No, Sharifa was his first wife.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I bet that was his truest love,” she says, smiling.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You have so many hopes and dreams when you are young.… They would have loved each other in the way that husbands and wives grew to love one another back then. There weren’t any love marriages.… Did you have a l
ove marriage, or an arranged one?”

  “Love.” I ponder what it might be like to start anew, four times, with a new partner, one who is barely known. To get into bed with them for the first time, only a short time after the previous one passed, and feel the heat of skin that is softer or rougher, less or more wrinkled. Unfamiliar skin. To learn new rhythms, demeanours, tones of voices. To start again, barely having mourned the last.

  But didn’t I do a version of this with the three boyfriends who spanned my twenties? I barely understood why they slipped away, and covered over my sadness with food binges and television. Then I started again.

  Of course, for Abdoolally it was different. With the first two wives, he would have been anticipating the joy of a baby, but instead was delivered two beloveds’ deaths. Would he have grown to fear pregnancy? Or sex? Would he have ever thought, Not tonight, let us remain safe another night? Did he ever think those wives’ deaths were somehow his fault, that he’d seeded another loss? Then I write down this stray thought: Perhaps all of that sadness poisoned his third marriage?

  “That’s nice. Love.” She pats my arm. There is a twinkle in her eye. “I barely knew my husband before we married. But he was a very good man. I think by the time we were together a few months, we were in love. He died six years ago. But I feel him with me everyday. That’s how love is. They … never really go. They never really leave you.” There are tears in her eyes, and I expect her to shut down the memories, but instead she perks up.

  “We went to Pune on our first anniversary. It was our first time going anywhere together, being completely alone. Because we lived with my in-laws. You know we didn’t leave the bed for the entire weekend? We had a porter come and bring us food, even!”

  I grin, delighted by this unexpected disclosure. My elder relatives rarely speak of personal matters, out of what I assume to be a sense of inflated privacy. Or perhaps it’s that I’ve never asked the right questions.

  She giggles, then dabs her eyes with her kerchief. “Now, what were you asking me?”