Seven

by Farzana Doctor

  We sip tea in silence, and I glance up to see Zainab looking at me.

  “Still thinking about your lion dream?”

  “No, I was thinking about Fatema, actually. Have you … have you seen all the articles she’s been posting? About the Australia case?” I know I am being circumspect, but speaking about khatna leaves me inarticulate. Zainab and I are used to getting personal, but this is different. This is a taboo even if no one has told us so.

  “I’m surprised she is publicly posting about it, to tell you the truth. This is a private, religious matter. It’s not something we discuss, at least not until the age when it is necessary.” She holds her cup in midair, tea forgotten.

  I nod, prepared to drop the subject, but then she continues, “She is making our community look bad.”

  “Yeah. While I don’t question speaking out, I do wonder how this will get taken up by the mainstream.” It’s fine to make fun of Bohras amongst Bohras, but I don’t want Facebookland to think we are monstrous. I imagine that Fatema would throw her hands up and say something like, “Khatna is monstrous!” and I would have to agree with that sentiment, too.

  When I refocus my attention on Zainab, I see that she’s turned pensive, as well.

  “You know, I never even really talked to Mom about it, and Nani probably didn’t talk to her.” She fidgets in her chair, spills a little tea in her lap. I rush to pass her a tissue.

  “Yes, it is out in the open now. The Australia case means that other communities will begin looking into it, begin prosecuting —”

  “It’s not fair that a mother will go to jail for something that is religiously required,” she interrupts. “I mean, she was doing her duty as a parent, only. The goras will never understand our ways. Perhaps this Australia legal case is even a case of racism.”

  “Racism?”

  “Yes, targeting our community. I mean, don’t those Australians have enough problems of their own?” Zainab slices the air with her hands.

  “Now you’ve lost me.”

  “Shouldn’t they be fixing their own people rather than going after Bohras for something so minor?” Her voice has risen to a shrill bark. I glance Zee’s way to make sure she is still immersed in her movie.

  “But Zainab, it’s not minor. It is a serious issue. Something that needs to stop.” This much I feel sure about.

  “Don’t allow yourself to be brainwashed by all the media. It’s just a tiny cut. It doesn’t do any real harm. And it helps Bohra girls stay pure, loyal. Not too focused on sex.” She shakes her head, agitation trembling through her neck.

  “That isn’t true, Zainab. You must know that. A cut down there can’t stop infidelity. It’s scientifically impossible,” I say in a quiet voice, tamping down my shock at her words.

  “Well, maybe that’s true. I don’t know. But something about it’s worked for us for centuries. Look! No divorces in our community.”

  “I don’t know, Zainab. I don’t agree with you.” I could mention Abdoolally’s third wife, Zehra, but I don’t want to argue. And perhaps Zainab is fatigued by the conversation, as well. She’s slumped back in her chair, studying her hands.

  “I can’t even remember much about it.” She stares off into space, and I try to fill the silence.

  “Really, you don’t remember it?”

  “Well, only vaguely. I know I had it.” She squints at the ceiling, as though the missing memory might have flown in like a lost parrot.

  “Until recently I didn’t realize that our family did it. I just assumed it was done among the less educated folk.”

  She shoots me a sharp look, and I immediately know that I’ve chosen my words poorly.

  “Chaa. That’s insulting!” The fight in her is back. “We’ve all had it done, and we are very educated. Why does tradition equal lack of education?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean …” I trail off.

  She nods, curtails her reaction. “Wait a minute, you didn’t have it done?” Her tone is incredulous.

  “No.” I frown. “I guess because I was in New Jersey?”

  “I think people do it there, too. Or they bring their girls here when the time comes. When Nafeesa was seven, there was a girl from Houston who was there with her nani.”

  “You took Nafeesa?” I remember back to when Nafeesa was as small as Zee. Just a little girl.

  “Of course. Listen, even if you don’t believe in it, there’s no choice. Here if you want your daughter to be married in the community, it’s required. The mother-in-law will often ask.”

  “They ask about a girl’s genitals?”

  “If not the girl directly, they will ask her mother. Your mother-in-law must have asked, no?”

  “I doubt it.” But I ponder the question. Murtuza’s mother is somewhat traditional, but doesn’t impose her beliefs on anyone. I glance Zee’s way when she laughs out loud at the screen.

  “I’m surprised. It’s just a regular thing,” Zainab counters.

  “But little girls! It must be scary and painful for them. The articles I’ve read say that it’s often done in unhygienic places and girls get infections.” I know I’m not going to get anywhere in this debate, but I can’t stop myself.

  “You’re making a big deal. It’s not like that. How scary could it have been if I don’t even remember? And the lady we took the girls to is very clean. Both Sharmeen and Nafeesa cried for a few minutes and that was that. We took them out for ice cream and they cheered up. Maybe in the past it was more unsafe, but like you said, we are an educated community.”

  “What are you talking about, Mom?” We both turn to see Zee’s serious eyes upon us. Her right earbud is in, but the other dangles off her face. Perhaps she heard us mention Nafeesa.

  “Oh, nothing important, Zee. Adult stuff. Watch your movie.” Surprisingly, she complies. Usually, when Murtuza and I invoke the “adult stuff,” she only grows more interested.

  “I’ll never get it done to her.”

  “And you won’t have to. You won’t be pressured. It’s understood that you live a different life in the West.” This is often how we’ve cooled down our tiffs, agreeing to disagree. She’s the East, and I’m the West.

  “So … it didn’t have any impact on you at all? They say it can cause problems in the future,” I ask in a low voice. Zainab looks away in embarrassment and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. She and I have had countless conversations about dating. She was my go-to cousin when it came to matters of youthful romance because, despite her parents’ strict eyes on her, she had boyfriends all through her teen years. However, we’ve never talked directly about our sex lives, perhaps following an unwritten rule about marital privacy.

  “No, none. Adam and I have always had a very good time together.” Her faces spreads into a shy smile. “Even though it wasn’t a love marriage … our chemistry was so good … from the beginning. I don’t know about others, but I’ve never had any problems … in that department.”

  “May I ask you a more personal question?” I do a shoulder check to make sure Zee isn’t listening.

  Zainab shakes her head from side to side. It could mean Yes or Maybe or We’ll see, but I push ahead anyway.

  “So … orgasms?”

  “Of course! Never a problem. Not at all! See khatna doesn’t affect that! Anyway, don’t they say that the brain is the biggest sexual organ?”

  “Yeah.” I tip my teacup to my lips but it’s empty. “But then if that’s true, why would khatna stop infidelity?”

  As though she hasn’t heard my question, she says, “All of that stuff in the media is an exaggeration. I really think it is.” She stands up, clears the cups, and disappears into the kitchen.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Bombay, 1899

  A week after the nikah, he returned home late to find her in his library, so absorbed in a book that she didn’t notice his entry. While he knew Zehra was literate — it was one of the praises his mother sung about her — he flinched when he saw her reading one of his books. If Sha
rifa or Shaheeda ever took one in their hands, it was to dust or admire them. Everyone obeyed his unspoken rule to not interfere with his library.

  He watched her for many heartbeats before clearing his throat. She startled, clapped the book shut, Elements of English Grammar.

  “I see you like to read?”

  “Yes. I hope it’s all right. I learned to read a little English when I was young, but I would like to improve, and to learn to speak the language, too.” She stood, showed him the cover.

  “You will not have any use for it. I speak English only with the Angrez, and only for business purposes.”

  “I thought that maybe … I might help you. Even to entertain them when required.” Her expression had shifted from embarrassment at being caught, to confidence, her gaze steady, her jaw set. Her self-possession reminded him of Batool, recently married and now living in Poona. It hadn’t escaped him that his new bride was only slightly older than his children. When he’d complained to his mother that Zehra was young enough to be his daughter, she’d chuckled and asked if he’d rather be married to an old maid.

  “I think you will be busy enough with the household and Rumana.”

  “Quite the contrary.” She straightened her spine. “Your servants take care of nearly everything for Rumana. I would like to put my education to good use. I’d like to be of help. With your business affairs.”

  He wasn’t sure what to say. Of course, he was in favour of girls’ education — he’d made sure his daughters knew how to read, write, and do basic maths. But this was to build their characters, ensure good marriages, and assist their domestic management. Exactly how did this girl think she could help him with business affairs? Her proposal was preposterous.

  “I will have you take over Rumana’s tutoring, then. Put the book back in its place and go check on her.” He flicked his wrist, a gesture to end the conversation, and took his seat behind his large wooden desk. He heard the swish of her gaghra as she exited the room. When he turned, he saw that she’d taken the book with her.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I listen to Mumbai’s night sounds. The city slows, but doesn’t know stopping. Despite New York City’s reputation, it’s possible to hear little but the faraway rumble of a bus at 1:00 a.m. on our residential street. Here, horns beep and a chaiwala pushes his squeaky cart, calling out to a pair of passersby who might be thirsty. A crow caws, inspiring a dog to froth into a barking rage.

  But it’s not just the fracas thieving my sleep. I lie awake making sense of my conversation with Zainab, processing the fact that she doesn’t remember much, and views khatna as a harmless tradition, while Fatema has the contrary experience and opinion. But, then, haven’t they always played on opposite sides of the court, with me watching them pelt the ball back and forth?

  I find myself siding with Fatema’s activism while worrying that she’s obsessed with it. And I understand Zainab’s draw to tradition but can’t believe that such a smart person knows so little about sexuality and anatomy.

  I extricate myself from the bedsheets, step out onto the balcony, watch the men drinking chai. The tea seller moves along, ready to wake the next city block.

  I know that faith and facts don’t necessarily coexist.

  I know that fidelity has nothing to do with intact genitals.

  Does a lack of faith have anything to do with infidelity?

  And then, within a heartbeat, I am back thinking about Ian.

  While I didn’t call it cheating, I sensed the inappropriateness of the secret. Grown women, married women, aren’t supposed do that kind of thing.

  As I’ve done many times before, I contemplate what allowed me to duck the rules of marriage to be intimate with another man. Perhaps it was a lack of traditional values, an interruption of my faith.

  I like to imagine that my ethics kept Ian and I within the bounds of talk and fantasy, but that would be fooling myself. Had we not been caught, what might have happened? Would Murtuza have been as understanding if we’d gone a step further?

  Other repetitive questions loop in the middle of the night: Why didn’t I hide it better? Password-protect my computer? Log out of my Facebook account?

  Did I feel entitled to misbehave, to walk a treacherous line?

  What if Murtuza suddenly changes his mind and decides I’m no longer trustworthy?

  Did he stay because Zee was so small? What about when she’s grown?

  In our last session with the therapist, I dared to ask, “Have you forgiven me?”

  My heart ached when he shook his head, stared at his shoes. Finally he answered, “But I am willing to move past it.”

  I opened my mouth to protest — hadn’t we been processing my mistake for months already? — but the therapist held up her palm.

  “It might be too soon for forgiveness?” she asked.

  “I think so. I’m not angry anymore. I sort of understand what Shari was going through emotionally, but I can’t honestly say I forgive her yet. I don’t trust her fully. But … I trust her enough to move forward and see if everything gets better … and then maybe I’ll be able to forgive her and trust her completely. One day.”

  I remained quiet, knowing that my punishment was that we would have to carry on, move forward as he said, with this new, silent tension between us. One day, he might present me with his gift of forgiveness, but lurking within its box would be his inability to forget.

  I have not forgotten, either. The therapist repeated a dozen times that online betrayal is betrayal. But here’s the thing. Online sexy talk is not actual sex, for it’s not actualized in the body. It means that I, too, have not mentally let it go, not one hundred percent. There will always be a question mark about the sex. It would have likely disappeared had I found out that sex is sex, nothing special. Nothing magical. But I don’t know that, not in my body. It still holds the question. My body still wants an answer.

  And so, as the men downstairs finish their tea and conversation, I allow the question mark to curl through my brain, reimagining that one single night Ian and I had together. I don’t permit myself this often, but tonight I don’t feel like resisting.

  It was over a decade ago, two weeks after Robert moved out, the beginning of Christmas vacation. I wasn’t sad, the way I’d been after Jonathan four years earlier, or completely distraught like after my first boyfriend, Nick. No, with Robert I was only numb, weary, a three-time loser.

  Joanna, a buddy from teacher’s college, invited me to her colleague’s house party. I chose it over a friend’s birthday celebration, a gathering that I knew would be full of people who would overwhelm me with their sympathetic looks and How are yous and I’m so sorrys.

  We arrived at 9:00 p.m., early for Manhattan gatherings, but the revelry was in full swing. I deposited my contribution of seven-dollar red wine on the kitchen counter, pushing aside four other empty seven-dollar bottles to make room. Ian came through just then, still wearing his parka, and I pointed down the hallway to the bedroom that served as the closet. A minute later, he scanned the beverage selection. Besides Joanna, who’d waded into the living room to greet the host, we seemed to be the only two sober people in attendance.

  “’Tis the season,” he smirked as we watched a group of four women down shots, laughing at nothing.

  “I get it. Joanna told me most of these folks are teachers.” Judging from the crowd, they were young ones like me, still completing our first “hell years” in the profession.

  “Or social workers like me.”

  “Really, you?” With his shoulder-length dirty-blond hair and soul patch, he didn’t resemble the earnest, buttoned-up types who visited my school.

  “Yeah, I work at an addictions agency.”

  “Cheers.” It was the kind of thing you say when you’re feeling nothing and barely know the person with whom you’re sharing conversation. At best, Ian and I were acquaintances with some friends in common. We clinked glasses even though we hadn’t toasted anything.

  I finished my first
drink and refilled my glass and thought that maybe his chosen field made sense; he was a good listener, with penetrating eyes that made me feel like he actually cared. Robert and I had grown distant and dismissive of each other in the past year, and I welcomed the attention.

  “So, what else is new with you?” he asked. The only thing on my mind was Robert’s desertion, but I didn’t want to start crying under Ian’s compassionate gaze. Instead, we commiserated about how badly we each needed a vacation. We didn’t move from that corner of the kitchen all night. At 1:00 a.m., he bashfully asked if I might want to come back to his place. I didn’t have anything else to do, and he was nice. The idea of my apartment, with half its furniture cleared out, was depressing. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep; insomnia had extended its woody roots since Robert’s departure.

  We padded through an inch of fresh snow in our midcalf boots, the air biting my cheeks. I was tipsy, but not drunk. Tipsy felt better than the numbness that had been occupying my body all week like a melancholic parasite.

  We sat on his couch and he confessed that he’d been attracted to me for years but hadn’t asked me out because I’d always been in a relationship when he was single, which he had been for the previous year.

  “Well, I guess our timing worked out, now.” For a moment, I wondered what I was doing in his bachelor apartment. There were milk crates for shelves and an Emma Goldman poster on the wall that made me guffaw: If voting changed anything they’d make it illegal.

  He kissed me, and I mechanically reciprocated, assessing his lips to be plumper than Robert’s, which I’d always found to be too thin. Ian ran his hands over my back and I mimicked his motions.

  “You okay?” Perhaps he could sense that my mind was elsewhere.

  “Yeah.” I pressed into him. I told myself that I needed to do it, had to override my Robert grief so I could get over him. I buried my face in his neck and inhaled sour-milk sweat and a trace of cologne. What happened next surprised me. My skin began to tingle, like that time when at a cottage with friends, I’d jumped out of a hot tub and into a snowbank. An electric buzz travelled through me. My body woke up.