Seven

by Farzana Doctor

  “Why don’t we give them something?” Zee asks. At home, I’ve allowed her to toss coins into the violin cases of street musicians, or the hats of panhandlers.

  “Zeenat, if you give them even one rupee they will harass us all the way home,” Maasi replies.

  “I know it’s hard to ignore them, Zee. But what Maasi is saying is true. The poverty here is so deep you can’t fix it by giving out a few rupees. It’s more complicated than that.” My explanation feels too simple. Perhaps I can create a lesson out of this tomorrow.

  The children start up their begging chants again, so we walk around to the front of the building. I stare up the four storeys, and to distract Zee, I point out the detailing on the Victorian window ledges. Maasi dabs her forehead with the edge of her rida.

  “It must have been worth a bundle, even back then. I wonder why he gave his printing press to the clergy? There’s a rumour that they weren’t good businessmen so it didn’t flourish after Abdoolally’s time,” I say, prodding Maasi for anything she might contribute.

  “Well, they were spiritual leaders, not business leaders,” she says. They are both now, I want to say.

  “So did they sell it off later? Or do they still own it?”

  “You know I have no idea. Perhaps they sold it. It seems to be all separate-separate offices now.”

  Murtuza is home when we return to the flat.

  “Have a good day?” he asks, chopping onions and sniffling.

  Zee tells him about our time with Maasi. She burbles about the old building and the doorman and the Limca she drank after.

  “Learn anything new?” he asks me.

  “Not exactly.” I hesitate to tell him that it feels more like touring than research, and that I’m starting not to mind. He is focused on his teaching these days, his research more clear-cut; he’s had his sabbatical goals defined for years. Me, I am meandering. I’m chasing a ghost, a projection of all our imaginations.

  He finishes with the onions and pushes them into a hot pan. When he looks up at me again, he smiles.

  “You look good. Despite the smog, you’ve got a tan from being here these last couple of months.” I know that smile. He will make a move later tonight after Zee goes to sleep. I pat his back, wash my hands, and cut the four tomatoes he’s laid out on the countertop.

  Later, I bathe, recalling the afternoon’s strange dream, but shake it off; I don’t need to think about massive dogs right now. I turn my mind to Murtuza. I’m not full of anticipation the way he is. I wouldn’t ever say this out loud; I know there isn’t anything erotic about viewing wedded sex as good marriage maintenance. But it offers him a sense of security, something I’ve worked hard to achieve since the affair four years ago.

  I give him a come-hither look, and that’s all it takes. So easy and I just want it to be easy. He kisses me and I focus on the pleasant sensations, murmur encouragement so that he won’t have anything to worry about.

  I get distracted, my mind sending me to the mostly empty basement of the NYU Library.

  My first boyfriend’s angst about his lack of prowess had led me there. I found a book called Learning to Orgasm and hunched down in a corner with it, reading the first three chapters. The library was closing, and I didn’t want to check it out, so I stashed it behind a desk and returned the next day to finish it. I followed the tips for many months: masturbate daily for ten minutes. Think of it as exercise, that you are building a muscle. Don’t give up. Sometimes I thought I was getting close, but the feeling would peter out just as I welcomed it, like it has done with every partner I’ve had. Close but no cigar. Nick and I tried other things: we got drunk and had sex. We smoked pot and had sex.

  Murtuza rolls on top of me, and Nick rolls away. My nice-smelling husband gazes into my eyes and I know that he has no idea that I’ve just time-travelled twenty years. He kisses me again.

  In a minute he will offer to go down on me and I’ll shake my head and ease him inside. He will sigh with gratitude and murmur that my body feels like home and I will be truly, sincerely glad. I will notice and breathe into the sensations like the book suggested, a pleasant, warm pressure. I will feel my heart bursting with love that what we are doing is loving. Healthy. Good. And when his body shudders and collapses onto mine, I will feel satisfied. And then I will hold him tightly, knowing that he is mine and I am his. And we will sleep.

  But that is not what happens. He makes his oral sex gesture and I have no idea why, but I turn into a sack of wet sand, immobilized. He takes this lack of resistance as approval, and emits a thrilled “okay!” when I don’t stop him. I push against the numbness, contract my thigh muscles, and feel a glimmer of something as his tongue laps at me. I tell myself to breathe into the sensations, but they are muted, as though coated in a fine anesthetic netting. My body is apathetic, leaden, and, wondering if I can move, I test out a bend in my knee. My pelvis rocks with this adjustment and Murtuza interprets this as encouragement. Still, there is little feeling, except for a new sadness, a blue warm rain. I realize that I am weeping, but it’s silent and Murtuza doesn’t hear or see it washing over me. Threatening to drown me.

  I take a deep breath, manage to flap my arms to signal for him to stop. I clumsily turn onto my belly. I don’t want him to see this odd despair. I wave my hand over my shoulder for him to come close.

  From the way he grabs my hips, squeezing them too tightly in his excited fingers, I can sense his thrill. Once again I try to feel the sensations, and once again I can’t. I continued my quiet crying, the pillow growing damp. Finally, the tears stop when his body spasms. While he breathes into my neck, I wipe my face dry with the sheet.

  “Honey,” he croons, “that was terrific!”

  “Yeah,” I murmur.

  “It was nice to do something new, a new position,” he laughs, giddy. “India is good for us.”

  “Yeah.” My voice has the artificial brightness of an incandescent bulb despite the mucus that has thickened it. I am angry at myself for lying to Murtuza and also angry with him for not noticing. The irrationality of the moment muddles me and I am too tired to figure out how to handle it.

  “Good night,” he whispers. Then after a pause, he asks, “You okay?”

  “Yes. Falling asleep. Good night.” The easiest thing to do is close my eyes so no more tears will leak out. I roll over and he spoons me from behind and it takes me a few minutes of deep breathing to stop feeling like his touch will suffocate me.

  TWENTY

  Bombay, 1891

  Abdoolally lay face down, Shaheeda sitting cross-legged beside him, kneading his muscles with her skinny fingers. Sharifa’s hands had been so much stronger. In fact, everything about Sharifa had been more solid, substantial, including her mind. This Shaheeda was a wisp of a girl who had no thoughts of her own. When he asked her her opinion — in even the most mundane or domestic matters — she searched his face for the correct answer.

  “Is it all right?” Shaheeda asked, perhaps sensing his displeasure.

  “Try to push harder, no? I can barely feel anything,” he grumbled. Maybe it wasn’t fair to compare an eighteen-year old to his wife — his deceased wife — a woman who’d grown up with him, raised his children, supported him as his businesses thrived.

  What would Sharifa think of the new girl? He imagined her amongst the guests at the festivities last month, her discerning eye on both him and his bride. She’d be glad he’d finally chosen a woman to take over her roles in the house and with the children, but he knew she’d find Shaheeda lacking, a poor substitute. And perhaps there would be something satisfying about that, the knowledge that their love was not easily replaced.

  He rose abruptly, shaking her off him, sending her tumbling across the bed.

  “Sorry.” He shook his head. “I want to sleep.”

  He glimpsed her from the corner of his eye, righting herself, uncrossing her legs. She stood and slid her feet into her chappals.

  “Of course, you are tired.” He registered her clipped
tone, for it was the first time he’d heard it. Previously, she’d only spoken to him in a melodic, little girl sort of way. But just now she’d sounded like his mother. He looked up at her, met her frustrated glance, her downturned mouth. He laughed, mirth rippling through his aching muscles, and at first she must have thought he was mocking her, for she took a step back and crossed her arms over her chest.

  She was pretty, and those distinctive eyes of hers, brown with streaks of gold, shone in the dim room.

  “I … I don’t know what is so funny.… Just, it feels good … it’s the first time I’ve laughed in a while.” He giggled uncontrollably, trying to catch his breath.

  He reached out his hand to her, his body thrumming with levity. After a moment, her angry glare softened, her face crinkling to match his. She took his hand.

  TWENTY-ONE

  It has been a rainy, muggy week, but this afternoon, the sky is clear and there is a breeze rustling the umbrella over our table. Fatema is between meetings, so I join her while Zee sits in one of Murtuza’s classes, an English language arts lesson we concocted.

  “You saw the petition against khatna I posted on Facebook?” Fatema asks. “It’s a campaign to urge the Indian government to ban all forms of FGM, including khatna.”

  “I signed it. This issue is really important to you, isn’t it?” What I really think, but don’t say, is that it appears to be an obsession. I hope she won’t lecture me like last time. Fatema gestures for a barista to bring us lattes. The cafe doesn’t offer table service, but she is a regular and, well, it’s Fatema.

  “Yes, yes, it is.”

  “So, how come?”

  “Last time when we spoke of it, you said you thought only the most backward people did it.”

  “I don’t think I said ‘backward.’ I just meant, not in our family, I mean, no one I know has ever talked about it happening to them,” I defend. The lattes arrive and I blow on my foam, take a sip. Fatema drinks down a quarter of hers in one long gulp.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t correct you then, Shari. But you need to know that it’s very common. People believe it is religiously correct.” Her gaze is penetrating.

  “Really?” I look down into my cup.

  She inhales deeply on her cigarette, and her shoulders drop.

  “You haven’t given this much thought before?” she asks, kindly now.

  “No, it was only your Facebook posts that made me aware. I’m glad that Australia case is happening. Do you think the perpetrators will be convicted?” It’s big news for the Bohra community; two girls in Sydney told social workers about their khatna, and the local religious leader, the “khatna lady,” and their mother were charged.

  “I’ve heard through the grapevine that because it happened a couple of years ago, when they examined the girls there wasn’t detectable physical scarring. That weakens the case.”

  “Is it possible it didn’t happen then? If there isn’t physical evidence?”

  “No, in some cases there isn’t obvious damage. I know many women who do have damage, but for others the cut was ‘lighter’ and healed up.” She gazes at me, and I can tell she is holding something back. She pours a packet of sugar into her latte, only just realizing that it’s too bitter.

  “It’s … it’s happened to most of the girls in our family.” She pulls on her cigarette and releases a long smoky sigh. Once again, she eyes me carefully, as though her words might break me.

  “Oh no.” My stomach drops. Fatema looks to her lap and I realize why she cares so much about this issue. “You? And Zainab, too?” I whisper. She nods, frowns. “Nani did that?”

  She grinds her cigarette into the ashtray, and bites her bottom lip, hesitates. “Yes, and I’m sorry to say, your favourite aunt.”

  “Tasnim Maasi believes in khatna?” I ask, mouth agape. I can’t imagine it. She’s orthodox, but educated. She has email and Skype and a cellphone. Fatema watches me wordlessly for a moment.

  “I can’t say what she believes now, but yes, back then, she must have.”

  “I’m sorry that happened to you,” is all I manage to say. “Look, I have to get back to work. We’ll talk about this some other time.” Before I can respond, she’s out of her chair. I watch her cross the street and notice that the ashtray is full of Fatema’s brand, and my clothes reek of smoke.

  On the walk back to the apartment, I sweat through my T-shirt despite it being cool for the end of October. When I arrive at the flat, Zee and Murtuza are still out. I check my watch, surprised I have been away for only an hour and a half.

  In the evening, when Zee is in bed, my mouth is a spigot, Fatema’s words gushing out in a single stream.

  “I had no idea.” Murtuza is dumbfounded. He’s not on Facebook, one of those early adopters who rejected it once it grew popular.

  “Yeah, me, neither,” I say, the words strange on my tongue.

  “Why haven’t I ever heard about this before?” he asks, and I flinch, the way I do since the affair four years ago, when Murtuza finds out I’ve hidden something, usually something inconsequential. “Growing up, no one mentioned it to me. Not my sister, or mother.”

  “From what Fatema said, the orders come from the Syedna and his amils, but it’s women who enforce it. The men are not involved.”

  “But isn’t it strange that a father wouldn’t know if it’s happening to his own daughter? That’s absurd.” I follow his gaze down the hallway to Zee’s bedroom.

  “I guess I was lucky, growing up in the U.S. I still can’t believe that Zainab’s and Fatema’s parents would allow it. They are modern people.”

  “Your mother never mentioned this to you?”

  I shake my head. “I suppose it wasn’t relevant. And Fatema says that no one talks about it after the fact. It’s a bad memory, a secret. She said some girls block it out and so when they grow up and take their daughters for it, they don’t even think it’s a bad thing, just a normal rite of passage.”

  “A normal rite of passage … do you … do you think it could’ve happened to you? I mean, perhaps it might explain …”

  I stiffen, my instinctual response to this familiar What is wrong with Shari sexually? conversation. Only now, something different is happening. I hug my arms around my belly.

  “Oh my god.” Nausea creeps from the pit of my stomach. “I’d remember something like that, wouldn’t I?”

  “Unless you didn’t. Right? Like Fatema said, some people forget.” Murtuza is watching me intently, his dark eyelashes fluttering a panicky morse code.

  “No. How could it be possible? My parents wouldn’t have allowed that. They are in no way orthodox. Remember, they were red card holders,” I say with a false laugh, a failed attempt at levity.

  “Almost leopard-spotted!” He grins, joining in, half-heartedly. “You’re probably right. But still, faith is an odd thing.”

  “No. I really can’t imagine my mother permitting such a thing. Her beliefs are progressive.” My voice is hard now. Our silly moment has passed.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m pretty sure it didn’t happen to me. No, I’m certain of it. I resent … you thinking it’s connected to …” I don’t finish my sentence.

  “Okay. You know your parents best. And you know your body best.” He takes my hand, the words, and his warm hand over mine, his apology. Normally these are enough to placate me, to allow easy forgiveness. But I can’t receive them this evening. I am suddenly livid with Murtuza. Once again he’s turned a conversation that has nothing to do with me into a line of investigation about my sexual issues. He’s crossed this line too many times and I’ve had enough. I stomp off to bed before him, and pretend to sleep, remaining limp when he attempts to embrace me.

  But something else lingers as I lie awake.

  Could it be true? Could it have happened to me? I shift away from Murtuza, all the way across the king-sized expanse to the edge. No, my parents wouldn’t have allowed it. Could they have been pressured? Aren’t my genitals normal? No
, it’s ridiculous. It’s impossible.

  The next day, Fatema’s words creep forward during quiet moments. I don’t want to think about Nani and Maasi doing this to Fatema and Zainab. I consider calling my mother, but I’m not sure what to say. Should I ask her if it happened to her? Seek a definitive reassurance that it didn’t happen to me? The idea of the conversation leaves me feeling flustered, foolish. I turn my focus back to Zee and my research, and resolve to push the issue away.

  But I can’t avoid Fatema forever. She made us dinner reservations at Hakkasan some time ago. As we arrive at the bustling restaurant, I’m glad for the buffer of my family.

  “Hey, Cousin.” Murtuza stands to greet Fatema, who has arrived just before us. He is relaxed with her, and I realize the khatna conversation doesn’t seem to change how he sees Fatema.

  “Hello, First Cousin,” I say, hugging her with mock possessiveness.

  “And you? Will you call me cousin or Maasi?” Fatema raises her eyebrows to Zee, who looks to me for an answer.

  “Zee, remember what I told you? Fatema is like a sister to me, so she’s kind of like your maasi.”

  “Hello, Maasi,” Zee says, shaking Fatema’s hand, as though being formally introduced for the first time. This performance is set up to make the adults laugh, and we do. “But why don’t I call Alifiyah Fayji Maasi?” Zee then asks.

  “Because Alifiyah is my sister and you call your father’s sister fayji. And your mother’s sister is your maasi,” Murtuza explains. “Get it?”

  Zee blinks at him.

  “It’s a little confusing. Each specific relationship having a different title.” I stroke Zee’s hair.

  “Welcome to India. And then we have kaaka and kaaki and mama and mami, too. I think we would do well to drop all these titles and just call everyone by their first names.” Fatema laughs. “So tell me, Murtuza, how’s the flat working out for all of you? Is it to your liking?”