“I hope not,” I say, wanting to temper this criticism. When I was younger, Tasnim Maasi encouraged me to pray. I remember leaning into her, her warm hands on mine as she showed me how to advance each tasbih bead.
We hang up soon after, and I flip back through my notes to find the one I wrote that day: What was the Bohra spiritual leadership like back then? As policing as today?
And now I add these ones: Why is everyone so cautious? What would happen if people just spoke the truth? Of course I do know the answer. Most Bohras have some critique of the religious leadership, which they whisper behind closed doors, to avoid the consequences of louder protest. And there are consequences.
We’ve all heard stories: decades ago reformers were punished with physical violence while others had their houses burned down. More recently, people talk about getting threatening housecalls and being refused marriage and funeral services. Social and business shunning. Parents are told not to associate with heretical children. These are cautionary tales, spread to guide the flock away from apostasy. And yet, in these shared stories, there is often an undercurrent of admiration, a hushed applause for the doomed protagonists. But most Bohras will never join the protesters; they want peace for their own families.
I consult Fatema next; I need some straight talk. Or perhaps I just want confirmation of my biases? I meet her at her office, and she sends an assistant out for lunch. Five minutes later, a sweaty teenager arrives with two tiffins, the sort that wives might pack husbands. These came from a restaurant around the corner that specializes in “home food.”
I mix the daal and rice and tell her about the unpaid IOUs that Shabnam reported to me.
“Shari, you must find out more. Can we collect on those IOUs from those corrupt devils?”
My cousin is unconcerned about shunning. Her parents are already buried and her sister is married, lives far away in Australia, and is similarly non-religious. And so, she can say out loud what I’ve been wondering and what Shabnam alluded to.
“What if it’s partly his fault? This grand ancestor of ours might have planted the seed for their wealth! And what if that wealth brought the corruption and violence? The selfishness? The greed? A beautiful spiritual community turned into a cult?”
I shudder involuntarily at her strong language. Surely, we are not a cult. Sensing my disbelief, she puckers her lips and lists on her fingers the qualities of cults.
“One. Authoritarian leadership. We have that, right?”
I nod.
“Two. The belief in exclusive truth. In other words, we are the chosen ones, the only sect who will go to heaven. Well, not me. Maybe you.” She smirks, stares me down, waiting for my response.
“Yeah, though who believes that?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s what is preached.”
“All right.”
“Three. Discouraging independent thinking. No one is allowed to question or challenge or else you get number four. You can guess what that is?”
“Shunning.”
“Correct.” She glows with the pleasure of winning an argument. “Wait, we have one more.”
“Uh-huh.” I sense a bout of flamboyance about to emerge.
And then, lifting her thumb, she says, “Five. Khatna.”
I shake my head at Fatema, aware that she’s been having a lark.
“Okay, okay. We’re not a cult. But almost, c’mon. And maybe our great-great-grandfather empowered the Royals.”
“Well, I need to know more. Like exactly how much money he gave them. And perhaps he wasn’t their only wealthy donor?” I counter, wanting to maintain a measure of objectivity.
“True. Most Bohras give their money and benefit business-wise. It’s like that for every religious community.”
“Right, so maybe this was a normal practice amongst the rich back then, too.”
“Let me know what you find out. Then I’ll get my lawyers on the IOU collection,” she says, laughing with her mouth full of daal and rice.
Before I abandon my notebook for lunch, I write: research the characteristics of cults. When I look up, I notice her countenance has turned earnest.
“Hey, I meant to ask you something. Have you been seeing my posts about khatna these last couple of years?”
“Of course.”
“What do you think of it?” She picks up a roti, scoops green beans, stuffs it all in her mouth.
“Well, I’m glad women are writing about it.” The truth is that I barely skim the articles, my habit with topics pertaining to violence and abuse. Fatema regards me carefully, perhaps knowing I’m sensitive — during my tween and teen visits, I’d stop to give money to a little boy carrying a baby, and then grow flustered when I’d be surrounded by a flock of children with pointy fingers and outstretched hands. Fatema would have to say a few sharp words, clap her hands authoritatively, and extricate me from their throng. Then she’d tease me for being a “bleeding heart.”
“You don’t have to get involved if you don’t want.” Finished with her meal, she restacks the three metal dubbas, one atop the other.
“Involved?” I ask. Why would I get involved?
“Well … activism isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.”
“This is something that isn’t so common, right? I mean, it’s a traditional custom that is dying out?” I say, recalling the section on circumcision from Mullahs on the Mainframe.
“What? Why would you think that?” she retorts, with a tone I recognize. Once again I am the naive and spoiled American, not Indian enough. She lights her cigarette, inhales once, and then sets it in the ashtray, where it slowly burns like a toxic stick of incense.
The tiny muscles in her face shift, smoothen. Stone-faced, I think. She does it, too. She begins a lecture, her voice unemotional. This is Fatema shut down, disconnected, retreating from me. “Female genital mutilation is practised in India, mostly by the Dawoodi Bohras, our community.”
I’m not finished my lunch but am no longer hungry.
In a monotone, Fatema reports what I’d already learned from a newspaper story she’d posted last year. “Bohras tend toward Type One or Four, as categorized by the World Health Organization,” she recites, as though reading from a textbook. When I raise my eyebrows, she clarifies, “Type One is the removal of all or part of the clitoris, and with Bohras, most commonly the clitoral hood. Type Four is less defined — sometimes Bohras nick the clitoral hood — they call it ‘just a nick,’ as though it’s nothing to cut such a sensitive part of the body.” I focus on stacking my dubbas, latching them together. The bottom one is slightly warped, and I notice a small gap where the edges should meet.
“It makes some women have a lot of pain or aversion to sex, which is part of why it is done; the mythology is that it keeps girls from becoming promiscuous.” Her expression is incongruous with her words; it’s as though she is half-bored with the material. I wish I could only half-listen.
“Some girls remember it all and some block it out. It’s traumatic …”
“Look, Fatema, I should go,” I interrupt her, and check my phone for the time. I’m curious why she’s giving me this speech, but I’m afraid that asking will only prolong it.
“Okay, fine,” she says, her voice cool. “I have a meeting soon anyway.”
When I get home, Murtuza is browning meat and Zee is standing on a stool washing tomatoes. He has taken over the Mumbai kitchen, just as he did when we first moved in together, a year before we married. He rearranged the cupboards, restocked the spices. I cook, too, almost as much as he does, but somehow, the kitchen belongs to him.
“What are you two making?”
“Pasta sauce. I’m getting tired of Indian food every day.”
“Oh god, me, too,” I say.
“I used to tell my mother that when I was a kid. She’d make gora food every Sunday to appease me. Usually spaghetti bolognese.”
“Funny.”
“Is something wrong, Shari? You look … stressed. Did something happen?”
“It’s just been a long day, Murti. I need to take off my clothes, have a shower.” I feel like my skin is coated in Mumbai’s smog.
Under the shower’s stream, I imagine its grey swirls rounding the drain.
EIGHTEEN
Bombay, 1890
The Khar residence, although more spacious and stately, was also quiet, too quiet. A floor separated his suite from his three children’s bedrooms, and as he entered through the front door, he strained to hear their chatter. Perhaps they were playing carrom upstairs, for there were silences followed by periodic, high-pitched cheers.
His mother had advised him to buy the mansion, suitable for his growing family. He wanted to correct her, remind her that only last year his family had shrunk by one member, really two, but such talk only made Mummy cry, so he nodded, and shifted them there three months ago. She also said this place, with its Persian carpets, imported furniture, arching doorways, and stained glass, was appropriate for a man of his station, which also gave him pause. He had become successful in the past decade, yet when there were no visitors present, he preferred to sit on the floor rather than the padded chairs, the latter which he was sure contributed to his daily backaches.
He climbed the stairs and looked in on the game. His presence caused all three children to pause and stiffen like small prey animals. He gestured for them to continue, and stood beside Batool, who said, “Take my turn, Papa.” He shook his head and instead watched as she flicked the striker, driving a piece into a corner pocket. Batool cheered, while Husein pouted. Raushan, now fifteen and having decided she was too old for these games, commented from the sidelines, “Finally, Batool gets a point.”
“Oh, come on, I beat you every time!” Batool retorted.
They turned to look at Abdoolally, expectantly.
“Well done,” he said. They seemed to be waiting for more, but his mind had emptied, his mouth gone dry. When he looked at his children these days, all he could see were younger versions of Sharifa, and then a wave of sadness would wash over him. He’d learned that if he could turn away from it in time, it might not drown him.
“Did you eat dinner, Papa?” Raushan asked, frowning. She was a young woman now, the same age as her mother when she was engaged. When they were engaged. How hopeful he’d been back then, how full of happiness and love …
“Yes, I ate.” And then he headed back to his quarters downstairs.
NINETEEN
A few days later, after a morning of Zee’s schoolwork and my reading, we take a nap together. We’ve been doing this a couple of times a week — working for a period, then looking into one another’s watery eyes and mutually deciding to lie down. For me, it’s about the noisy nights, while Zee is intolerant to the midday sun. She’s learned how to crank up the air conditioning on her own but still, she often joins me in my big bed, starfishing on Murtuza’s side.
As I slip into slumber, listening to my girl breathing beside me, a sensation of well-being settles over my skin like a silk sheet. I have the gift of a year off. I am married, have a wonderful daughter. I am happy.
Soon, I am playing fetch with a large dog, something like a Saint Bernard, only bigger. We are in the pristine Mumbai flat, and although I should be afraid of him breaking something, I’m not. When I toss the ball, he obediently, gracefully, catches it in his big maw. I test him, making the throws more challenging, a little to the left, a little to the right, a little too high. After a dozen or so of these, he grows bored of the game, midthrow, and flops down on the marble floor, drooling. My dreaming mind turns the flying ball, previously made of soft rubber, into a cannonball, and it crashes through the balcony’s sliding door. The floor-to-ceiling pane cracks open, and a frigid winter gale rushes in. I awake, chilled from the frost’s bite.
Zee is fast asleep. The AC is on high, blowing down on us.
I pull the blanket around me, close my eyes, and succumb to the dream again. I sense the dog is still in the room, but now I can’t see him. From out of nowhere, he lunges, takes me down, and I am flat on my back, the wind knocked out of me.
Somehow, magically, I will my legs to kick, and their thrashing makes the dog disappear. But then, in the dark, a moist palm grabs first my right foot and then the left, a wrist bone clashing with my ankle. I can’t see the face of the person who restrains me.
I open my eyes, blinking in the shaft of light coming in from under the blinds. With relief, I realize I am in our rented Khar apartment. I move my hands and feet, just because I can.
Zee snores lightly, covers thrown off. I examine the delicate skin of her wrists, her ankles, notice a new scratch on her foot. How’d she get that? I make a mental note to rub aloe on it when she wakes.
I stretch, swivel my hips, shake off the dream’s torpid residue. I turn down the air conditioning and step out onto the terrace.
We are supposed to meet Tasnim Maasi this afternoon, to go see the Rangwala Building, the original home of the Queen’s India Printing Press, one of Abdoolally’s first businesses. I check Zee’s curriculum, considering how to turn the excursion into a learning activity; it’s our tangents that often make for the most interesting lessons. Today, we reviewed health material, which covered the basics about sex and gender and made cursory mention of people who don’t fit into simple male or female categories. But Zee knows Lily, our neighbour who transitioned last year. I’d wondered if she’d have questions for Lily at the time, but she only wanted to know how long it takes for hair to grow from short to shoulder-length. Today, the brief reference to transgender people prompted Zee to ask me a deeper question: how did Lily know she was a girl? That sent us on a search that led us to a television interview with three Canadian children in the midst of gender transition. Home-schooling, an option at which I’ve always turned up my nose, is now making a great deal of sense.
Two hours later, Tasnim Maasi and I bookend Zee in the back of a taxi. Maasi had suggested a rickshaw but the diesel fumes make both Zee and I cough. Plus, taxis can now be ordered through online apps, and drivers use GPS rather than what Murtuza dubbed “Indian Google,” the practice of stopping three times for directions and using landmarks instead of addresses.
“Are we going to meet Abdool La Lee today?” Zee asks. It only now dawns on me that she’s been imagining me researching someone alive, the way we’d earlier looked up Khalil, the fourteen-year-old transgender boy in the Canadian documentary.
Tasnim Maasi pinches Zee’s cheek and explains that neither of us has met him, that he is an ancestor. I’d explained this weeks ago, but it must not have sunk in.
“Oh, you mean dead.” Zee says this with the serenity of a meditation teacher. I stifle a laugh and Maasi murmurs the Al-Fateha.
“Yes, that’s right, almost one hundred years ago,” I clarify, and Zee watches Maasi mouthing the words to the end of the prayer. At the end, she kisses Zee’s forehead. Zee wipes off the wet.
I gaze out at the road. Amidst the local storefronts are Western brands in bright LCD lettering: Nike, Puma, McDonald’s, Tommy Hilfiger. There weren’t as many five years ago, and I wonder if this strip will soon resemble an American outlet mall. When we pause at a red light, I spy a man on the sidewalk. I know he is Bohra from his white-and-gold topi, his long white kurta, and his grey beard that trails over his chest. He turns, his eyes meeting mine, and I swear he looks just like the sepia photo of Abdoolally that Abbas Kaaka showed me.
“Maasi, do you know that man?” I point in his direction. The taxi lurches forward. The light is still red, but our driver seizes the opportunity of a gap in traffic. We screech into the intersection, narrowly missing a collision with a rickshaw.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, clutching Zee close to me. Maasi chastises the driver in Hindi and he shakes his head left and right, noncommittal, then speeds on. I turn, but the man is gone.
We get down on a busy thoroughfare under a flyover ramp. A nearby street sign tells me we are at Nagdevi Cross Lane. I snap a photo of the blue metal sign. We walk two bloc
ks, because Maasi forgot the exact location and stopped the driver prematurely. It’s a Muslim neighbourhood, and many of the businesses have sign-age with our telltale Bohra “wala” surname suffix. The buildings are older, shabby. Women with ridas like Maasi’s pass us on the narrow footpath. I am not sure what we are going to find here.
“Just to see,” Maasi informs. “It’s interesting, no? This is where it all began.” The doorman appraises us and half-heartedly steps aside because he has no real power over our entry. Besides, Maasi has already shot him a haughty look.
“That stare of yours could get us into the White House,” I joke, taking Zee’s hand.
“Who would want to get into the White House?” she retorts, causing me to sputter out unexpected laughter.
Inside it is cool. The building is a little worse for wear, the marble floors are yellowing and the golden paint peeling.
“It was once grand,” Maasi laments. “I remember coming here as a child. It has not been well maintained. One day someone will tear it down, turn it into a high-rise. It’s very sad, really.”
“Yes,” I echo, but I don’t want to be too morose in front of Zee, so I don’t pursue the topic. I take a dozen photos.
No one pays us much attention as we wander past windows with offices full of people in cubicles. On the fourth floor, I look out a window, wondering what it might have been like for Abdoolally. Would he have stood right here, scanning the horizon, seeing a different view from a century earlier? I superimpose photos I’ve found from his era: tree-lined, spacious streets, with horses and carriages and early versions of automobiles. Today, cars, motorcycles, and rickshaws jockey for road space. Diesel fumes permeate the air and most of the trees have disappeared.
We descend the stairs and circle around to the side of the building, where three small, ill-clad children sit in the meagre shade of a wilting tree. I shush Zee when she points at them. I know she can tell they are about her age, and senses the injustice in their different positions. They run up to us, chanting “paisa, paisa, paisa” in high-pitched voices. I take Zee’s sweaty hand while Maasi rejects their entreaties with a fierce look and a reprimand.
Seven Page 9
