“True. But I do like this arrangement.” He leans over and gives me a spinach-tasting kiss. Zee runs off to collect another book for her bag.
“I think it’s been good for Zee, too. Have you noticed that she seems more grown-up and independent than before? She made her own toast this morning.”
“Wow, and hey, I forgot to tell you — she told me she wanted to shower by herself today. She only needed me to turn on the water,” Murtuza says.
“Hmm, that is new. Did you check to see if she actually used soap?”
“No, I guess I should have?”
Zee returns to the kitchen and I hug her goodbye, giving her a good sniff and nodding to Murtuza before he ushers her out the door.
Now that it’s quiet in the flat, I consider transcribing my last Abdoolally interview, but dread the tedium. Instead I scroll through Facebook’s newsfeed. I “like” Laura’s most recent photos of Elena balancing high on a beam during her gymnastics class. An acquaintance from teacher’s college is getting married, and her new profile picture is of two women’s hands showing off sparkly rings. I type congrats! into the comment box below. I read through their other well wishes. I pause when I see that two comments above mine is one from Ian Boyko: “Wonderful news!”
I hover over his name, hesitating. Then I give in and click open his page. We are no longer friends, but his privacy settings are low and I can view his photo albums. There are many pictures of him posing with women, but I can’t discern his relationship to them. Colleagues? Sisters? Lovers? His hair is shorter, the soul patch now grown into a full beard. My heart pounds. I force myself to close his page.
It’s been four years since I strayed into his life. I feel like a daredevil who’s just flown over a raging fire on my motorbike, exhilarated and relieved. He’s still there and I’m still here.
I am still here. I have been allowed to remain here, despite Ian. I check the browser history. I manically visit ten other friends’ pages to bury his. Not that I think Murtuza will go checking, but still, I have to hide him, just in case.
I send a message to Laura to see if she’s still awake. We’ve chatted briefly while setting up our daughters’ Skype calls, but the kids are always crowding us out. She replies by video-calling me.
“Hello!” She’s propped up in bed, makeup off, her chestnut hair piled on top of her head in a lopsided ponytail.
“I thought you’d be asleep by now!”
“Nah, I was just reading. Well, reading Facebook.” She laughs.
“Got a minute to talk about my blog? I’m trying to pick an easy platform.”
She nods and tells me about two sites. I decide to go with the same one she uses so that she can coach me when I need help later. Then we switch over to more personal talk.
“So how’s the dating going?”
“Remember how I told you how I was going to try to see more than one person at a time?” I nod to the screen. “Well, I’ve been seeing three. But … I sort of forgot to tell one of them that I was non-monogamous, and he got really mad at me. He accused me of cheating and then dumped me!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you like him?”
“We had fun.” She winces. “It mostly bugged me that he thought I was intentionally lying to him. I don’t think people should assume anyone is monogamous while dating.”
“True, not until you get serious. Though how would I know? I’ve only been a serial monogamist.” While this is technically true, an inner critical voice reminds me otherwise.
“Yeah.” She nods, pulling out her scrunchie to free her hair.
“Hey, Laura, weird question, but have you ever really cheated on someone?”
“Back in high school. I was young and messy. I was trying to break up with my first boyfriend but didn’t know how.” She squints at me through the screen. “Why do you ask? Did something happen with Murtuza?”
“No, not him. It was me.” She raises her eyebrows. “It was … a few years ago.” The story leaks out almost involuntarily, like air from an old tire. It’s a relief to confess the indiscretion to Laura.
“Wow, was he upset?”
“Oh, yes.” I tell her about couples’ therapy while she nods empathetically. “We patched things up, thankfully.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I’m not sure. I guess it’s taken me a long time to feel less guilty about it? Thanks … for listening. I just suddenly needed to tell you. I don’t know why.”
“Anytime.” She yawns and I take that as a cue to end the call.
“I’ll see you Friday?” That’s the girls’ regular day.
“See you Friday.”
I shut down Facebook and open my email, which I’ve neglected all day. There is a message from Fatema, sent at 3:00 a.m. It occurs to me that we were both awake at the same time, synchronized sleeplessness. There is a link to a password-protected film that she hopes I’ll watch. A second email offers the forgotten password — FGM — and she instructs me not to share it with anyone. Why am I being bestowed this privilege?
Against my better judgment, I point my mouse to the link, and type the not-so-secret password. Words scroll across the screen: “A Pinch of Skin.” A shiver races up my spine. I press pause, and turn off the air conditioning. Zee must have cranked it again.
Back at the kitchen island, I press play and perch on the high stool. I cross my legs, look down at my denim-covered thighs and wonder for a moment when they grew thick. When I was a girl, my mother used to pinch my knobby knees and sticklike legs and call me her foal. Now, these legs are strong.
I have to rewind the film, because I’ve missed the last minute or so, focused on my thighs and trying to remember the lyrics to that Nancy Sinatra song.
I start from the beginning again. A few women speak forcefully against khatna and I nod along. A couple of women say that it’s a harmless ritual. They make me think of Zainab, and I pity them. There is just one lady who is vehement that the practice is positive for girls’ sexuality. Her voice reminds me of Maasi’s but of course I know that this woman, whose face is obscured by a cinematic smudge, is not my aunt. It’s not Maasi’s way to appear on a video like this.
I pause the film to get up to pee, and then again to make tea. I am sweating so I change into shorts, turn the air conditioning back on.
The credits roll and my heart races. I check the time. It’s almost 2:00 p.m. I wish I could call Laura back. But it’s not her I need to talk to: it’s my mother. I need to finally ask her about all of this. Mom will already be in bed, fast asleep. But I call anyway.
She picks up on the fourth ring, her voice groggy.
“I’m so sorry for waking you. But …” I don’t have an appropriate justification for shaking her out of her sleep. What am I doing?
She asks a half-dozen alarmed questions about our safety and in a calm and authoritative voice, the kind she needs when stressed, I reassure her that we are fine. “Can you go to your computer and turn on Skype?” I need to see her face. I wait two minutes, watching the clock, feeling childish for this drama. Then my computer rings, and she appears, hair tousled. She’s brought her laptop to her bed.
“Did you see that article I sent you a couple of days ago?”
“Oh, yes, I read it today.”
“I need to ask you about it.”
She is quiet as I tell her everything I have learned about khatna. I give her details about the conversations I’ve had with Fatema and Zainab. I offer to send her the film link and she nods her assent.
“Is it possible that it happened … to me, too?” I finally get the question out, this question that for the last few weeks has been in my periphery, but from which I’ve been turning away, turning away.
“Oh, this is why you’re upset.”
I nod, chide myself for making this a big deal.
“Don’t worry. We opposed it.” She tells me that the family tried to put pressure on her when we visited India when I was seven. I relax into her assurances, but o
nly for a moment.
“Who? Who put pressure on you?”
“Tasnim, your maasi. You know she has always been so much more old-fashioned than me. And she is only six years older!”
“You are so different,” I agree, feeling a sliver of disloyalty to Maasi. I add, “But she’s also so spunky, you know? It’s hard to believe she believes in this stuff.”
“Well, it’s religion.” Mom shrugs.
“Still.”
“People think it’s symbolic, not anything that would do any real harm.”
“Yes, that’s what Zainab thinks.”
“I barely remember it happening to me, but the idea of it has always left a bad taste in my mouth … so when it came time to make that decision for you, I said no. We’d been living in Edison for three years already and we’d been exposed to different things, people, culture. Not only the Bohra culture anymore, although that was there, too. Ratna Aunty became my best friend. At the time it was a big deal to have a best friend who was Hindu!” She’s fully awake now, back to her chatty self.
“So you said no. Then what?”
“Before we went to India, Tasnim called me saying she and my mother could make the arrangements for the three of you cousins. She thought it would be good if you did it together. I told Ratna, who was appalled, and her reaction got me thinking, really thinking about it. I remember her face when I explained it to her, saw how shocked she was, it was kind of like when you haven’t given something much thought and then you see it clearly through someone else’s eyes.”
“So did you call Maasi back?” Impatience buzzes under my skin. I need to get to the end of the story.
“No. I knew I had to explain in person. She wouldn’t understand, so I wanted to be delicate about it. You know, she was so bothered that I’d even cut my hair! I had that Dorothy Hamill cut back then and they didn’t like it. She’d ask me things like, ‘Are you doing your namaaz still,’ and I brushed her off, telling her it was impossible to have an office job and pray at work.” She rolls her eyes.
“So you told her in person?”
“Yes, I told her and my mother together.” She flicks her wrist, indicating the completeness of her actions. “I said that your father and I didn’t want it. She argued with me and said, ‘Do you want her to turn out like Shaheen?’ I couldn’t believe it.”
“What did she mean by that?” Shaheen, the older cousin I admired as a child, would have been eighteen at the time when Mom and Maasi had argued. She’s married now, with two kids, and owns a thriving office-supply store in Detroit.
“She wore makeup and had a boyfriend. Somehow everyone in India heard the gossip! Her parents tried to rein her in, but she had a will of her own. Don’t tell anyone — it was a secret — but just before we came to India that year, she had to have an abortion. Tasnim doesn’t know that part of the story.”
“Really?” Of course, no one would have shared this with me — I was a child — but it’s strange to not have this information. What else don’t I know about the family? It’s like I’m peeling a boiled egg, only to find its yellow yolk soft and runny on the inside.
“Yes, it was the first time any of us had dealt with such a thing.”
I nod, imagining Shaheen having to cope with her private drama while relatives spread rumours about her.
“Tasnim tried to persuade me with her ideas about Western influences and the need to control girls and all sorts of things I knew were nonsense, but at the time, you know I felt intimidated? She’s always been a bossy older sister and sometimes I wondered if we should have followed more traditions.”
I tense, hearing her contradict her earlier words.
I gaze into her eyes. She hesitates. I remain quiet.
“I know it’s stupid, but later when you went through all those troubles in your twenties I wondered, Was she correct? But no. I never thought khatna was right.”
“So, you stood up to your sister and your mother that summer, right?” I still feel fuzzy about the story.
“When we left you to stay that summer, I made Tasnim promise to respect our wishes and she agreed to not allow our mom, your nani, to take you for it.”
“And you believe she did that?”
“Absolutely. She told me it was the parents’ decision, that it was only her duty as an older sister to give me her perspective, but she wouldn’t interfere beyond that.”
Her eyes shine brightly, lovingly, from across the ocean, and I sense her certainty. And I also know how much she loves her sister, loved her mother, how hard it must have been for her to disagree with them.
I exhale deeply and it’s as though I’ve been holding my breath for hours. I apologize again for the late call, and she waves it off. “It’s okay, you were worried. And it’s not like I have to go to work in the morning. I’m a retiree, remember?” She screws up her face, attempting to be goofy.
After we log off, I close Fatema’s message, send it to my deleted items mailbox. It’s all too much. The sadness of others is seeping into my skin. I’ve been perseverating on something that isn’t mine.
THIRTY-ONE
Bombay, 1901
Zehra’s quick mind and tongue resulted in many clashes, but also made her, well, interesting to Abdoolally. He began confiding in his new wife in the way he had done with Sharifa, and realized he’d missed doing so in the years he’d been with sweet but unworldly Shaheeda. With two more businesses now, there were so many more people to hire, to manage, to understand, and their pillow talk often turned to the pros and cons of promoting one person, firing another.
“You must make an appearance in Dholka, at least monthly, until you are sure your new overseer is reliable,” she advised. “We can all go together, spend some time in the country air. Rumana can see her nani.”
“You may be correct,” he said impassively.
“I am correct! Why don’t you ever listen to me? That overseer needs to understand he is being supervised!” Impatience rippled through her like an electric charge. It sparked its way across the bed to him. He had an urge to yell, to make her leave the bed, to just shut up for once.
But he was also tired and wanted peace, so he paused, breathed.
“Okay, you are right, it’s good advice.” When her expression softened he added, “But you know, Rumana is lucky, she has two nanis and two nanas now that she has you.” He squeezed her hand. While he didn’t say it aloud, his mind trailed off to the recent subtraction of a daadi in his children’s grandparent equation.
“Yes, my parents do dote on her. She is my baby now in almost every way. But they won’t stop telling me they are waiting for a grandchild from me.”
“We’ll have one soon, I’m sure.” But he wasn’t sure. They’d been married already for a year and a half, and there were still no signs of pregnancy. He did hope it would happen soon, though, for he believed that it would mellow her, provide an outlet for her excess energies.
For the next few months, he, Zehra, and Rumana made monthly journeys to Dholka. While their purpose was business, for the first time in his life, Abdoolally experienced the trips as week-long holidays. They’d board the Bombay, Baroda and Central India Railway Company’s evening train, bunking down in a sleeper car for the ten-hour journey, arriving in Ahmedabad at 6:00 a.m. There, they’d change to a middle gauge to Dholka, then eat breakfast while watching the passing sea of green from the train’s window.
Once in Dholka, they took leisurely walks around Malav Lake and visited distant relatives who treated him like a king. He felt glad for the stability and wealth that had settled over his life.
What a shock it was, then, when the amil came to visit him upon his return from their latest visit, sharing the scandal that was now spreading through the community like a virus. What was worse was that Zehra didn’t bother denying it, rather she launched into a long argument meant to sway him to her side. What gall! It was the first and only time he’d struck a woman, his hand whooshing through the air before he could stop himself.
The Syedna accepted his gift, his first printing press and the old building that housed it. He wouldn’t miss it much — it held too many memories of those he’d lost. And it would have the effect of shutting down the rumours, restoring his position in the community.
And with Zehra, well … he’d have to move on, as he’d done before.
THIRTY-TWO
Fatema visits me at the apartment, the first time in the almost three and a half months we’ve been in Mumbai. I’m curious about what would make her pop over in the middle of the day, but she brushes off my question with a jovial, “What, I can’t cut out early to see my favourite cousin?”
I raise an eyebrow at her.
“Well, I wanted to talk about that film I sent you.”
“Oh, I see.” We sit and I assume she’s come to confide in me finally, to talk about the impact of khatna on her. Perhaps she wanted to be far from the office for this conversation.
“Murtuza and Zee are out today?”
“At the university. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, no.” She fidgets in her seat. “So you watched the film.”
“Yes.”
“What did you think?”
“Well, it’s a good film. Painful, though. I’m really sorry you had to go through that.”
She watches me, and I keep talking to fill the space.
“I wonder, if Abdoolally were alive today, what he would think. I mean, maybe like most men, he’d be ignorant about it. But if he understood what was going on, that this is an edict from our religious leaders, would he still be their supporters? I mean, he must have cared for women, and children, advocating for maternity hospitals and education for girls. In his day, he must have been an outspoken person, just like you.”
“Can we go out on the balcony?” She gestures to her cigarette pack.
As she unlatches the sliding door, I envision Abdoolally with us, as I have been doing lately. I know it’s imagination, but I like him hovering near. It’s good for my research.
Seven Page 15
