Fatema sucks on a cigarette, the pale pink of her lipgloss staining its filter. I’m pretty sure Abdoolally wouldn’t approve of the habit.
“They came fifteen years back. I was twenty-five and the business was beginning to take off. They wanted to know if I was looking for marriage, but really they wanted money.” She blows a plume of smoke over her shoulder.
“Who came?”
“A few of Syedna’s assistants. Henchmen. And henchwomen. Two of each.”
“Really?” I’m not sure what she’s getting at, but I allow her to take her time.
“They asked if I’d made my annual contribution. They asked why I hadn’t been to functions in a long time. I was polite back then, Tasnim Fayji asked me to be. She didn’t want trouble for the family. There were many marriages and burials yet to come.”
“I can’t believe you’d be polite, even if Tasnim Maasi asked,” I joke.
“She pleaded with me, ‘Couldn’t you at least try to appease them?’ I didn’t want to, but I gave them money and they left me alone. Year after year. All those contributions I made would amount to a tidy sum now.”
“The price you pay for being part of a community,” I say. I imagine Abdoolally agreeing. Perhaps if he were younger, and Fatema were a man, they’d have made good colleagues, or perhaps friends. He hadn’t had many confidants, according to Abbas Kaaka. I tell her all of this and she takes out her phone, makes a few calculations, cigarette dangling from her lips.
“The bastards,” she says, showing me the figure on the screen. “This is how much I’ve paid over the years.”
“In rupees? Still, wow.”
“I don’t agree with that idea of ‘paying a price to belong to a community.’ It made me feel like I was a hypocrite. If Abdoolally did it, then he was a hypocrite, too.” She lights another cigarette and I watch the flash of the lighter’s flame, the white tip turning orange with her first deep inhalation. She closes her eyes when the nicotine hits its mark, makes a slow and long exhalation.
“Agreed. But you felt pressured. Do you think Abdoolally did, too?”
“Maybe. As a businessman. You don’t want to be shunned. That’s mostly why I gave them money initially. My press was new. Now, I don’t give a damn.” She goes quiet.
“What are you thinking about, Fatema? I know there’s something on your mind if you come to visit in the middle of the day.”
“It’s about the film.”
“Tell me; I’m listening.”
“You know, it killed my mother when she found out that they took me for khatna. Years before, she’d relented when people told her to get it done for my older sister, but when she saw how she cried, she refused to allow it for me. But they tricked her and …”
“Tricked her?”
“Did it secretly. Without asking her.”
“Oh.” At least Maasi and Mom had the conversation. Perhaps Tasnim’s mother, a sister-in-law, wasn’t given that kind of consideration.
“Well … it’s just that you need to know who you’re dealing with. I know you’re close to Tasnim, but she is manipulative. Sneaky. You can’t ever leave Zee alone with her.”
“I’m so sorry it happened to you. And that she was responsible for it. I just don’t know how to reconcile it all, you know? That version of Maasi, who hurt you, and the version that is my loving aunt.”
Fatema stubs out her cigarette, flicks the butt into the air, and it falls down, down. Before I can respond, she says, “Look, I’d better get back to the office.”
I watch her leave, a well of compassion rising. It must be so hard for her to talk about it. I don’t know why — perhaps it is my empathy for my cousin — but when I go inside I rescue the short film from my computer’s trash and play it a second time. The credits are rolling when I notice Zee standing behind me.
“When did you get home?” I pull myself from the film, wipe away the wet on my cheeks.
“A couple of minutes ago.”
“Where’s your dad?”
“We saw Maasi Fatema downstairs. They were talking, so I came up on my own.”
“Oh.”
“What was the movie about?”
“It’s an adult matter, Zee. Not something you need to worry about.” I close my laptop and look into her worried eyes. “I’ll explain when you are older.”
Her face grows wise and serious, her chin wrinkled. “But Mom, it made you upset. Your eyes are red. You’ve been crying.”
“Oh Zee, it’s okay. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not good to keep feelings inside,” she continues, parroting my own words back at me.
“You’re so right.” I pull her onto my lap. “This video is about some negative things that some adults do. With good intentions, or without thinking, sometimes parents do the wrong things. It made me cry to think about that.”
“What did they do?”
“It’s a religious thing. They did an unnecessary procedure that causes complications.” I’ve intentionally used complex words and as a result, her eyes are big brown circles.
“Did they do it to you, Mom?”
“No, but to people I love.”
“How can you show them that it’s wrong, Mom?” Now she is repeating my advice for resolving conflicts with her friends. Her gaze is intense, and I meet it.
“You are such a good kid, you know that? You make me proud.” I squeeze her until she wriggles out of my grip.
“Mom.” She is relentless. How did I raise such a strong girl?
“Yes, you’re right, Zee.” And I think, especially since hearing Mom’s reassurances, and knowing that I was protected, perhaps I should try to be a good ally to Fatema. Should I encourage her to talk more about it?
Satisfied, she wanders off.
I search the room, trying to feel Abdoolally’s presence. But he is long gone.
The next few weeks blur. It’s mid-January and I think I may have completed my Mumbai research, spoken to every relative I can find. I transcribe all my interviews. Next week I’ll finish combing through the trust’s archives. I read and reread Abdoolally’s will, purchase a receipt signed by him from an antiquities dealer on eBay.
I’ve seen Fatema twice, wanting to hold a door open for her in case she wants to talk more about khatna, but she hasn’t stepped through. I even told her about how my mother resisted it, which just seemed to make her sadder. For now, I’ll leave it be.
Murtuza’s birthday approaches. While he denies it, he enjoys a fuss: gifts, an overpriced meal, cake and candles. I walked Linking and Hill Roads until I found a shirt I think he’ll like.
“Where would you like to go for dinner?” I ask.
“I’ll let you know. Maybe we’ll do something different this year.”
“Tell me soon, so I can plan things.”
“Actually, I’ve already planned things.” He explains that he’s arranged for Zee to go on a sleepover with Nafeesa, something Zee’s been pleading with us to do for weeks. The two have bonded, big cousin-sister to little cousin-sister, and these days I’m wondering if we’ve done her a disservice by not having a second child.
“Okay. So do I make a reservation somewhere?” This is weird. Normally he wants me to sort all this.
“I’ll let you know.” He grins at his willful guile, and returns to his marking.
Three mornings later, when he opens his eyes, I wish him a happy birthday, and again ask him to choose a restaurant. Instead of replying, he jumps out of bed and rustles through his dresser drawer. He unzips the pleather case and dangles the blindfold from his index finger. I thought he’d long forgotten about it.
“How about we try this out tonight?”
“I was wondering when you were going to ask.”
“I know, we’ve been here a long time already … I guess I’ve been a coward. But I was remembering that amazing time we had before the Goa trip, remember?… I dunno, I thought maybe we could try something new again.” I think back to that strange night a couple of months ag
o, when the disconsolate mood took over, when Murtuza thought we were being wild. Since then, we’ve settled into our familiar weekly waltz. But perhaps Murtuza has been, all this time, trying to get his nerve up to try a new dance.
“Sure, if you’d like to. But can I ask you something?” He nods. “Why have you been so timid about this?” I sit cross-legged, hug myself.
“I really don’t know.” Murtuza comes to the bed, takes my hands, un-pretzels me. “I … I used to do it before, in the past, but for some reason I’ve felt uncomfortable to try it with you.”
“Why?” Then, to take the pressure off him, I ramble, “It’s not like this is completely brand-new for me. One of my old boyfriends sometimes liked to spank me; it’s no big deal, it’ll probably be fun.”
“I know, I know. It’s weird, how I’m not at all confident to get out of my comfort zone.” He hesitates a moment and then says, “I think I associated this stuff with white people, white girlfriends. Not something you’re supposed to do with a Bohra wife, the woman you love, the mother of your child. You know?” His laugh is high-pitched, nervous.
“Huh.” I look him squarely in the face, viewing my husband from a new angle.
“Yeah, I don’t get it, either.” He scratches his nose.
“Well … I am a very good Bohra wife,” I say, to lift the mood. He smiles and then frowns, becoming earnest again.
“We’ll need a safe word, and you should tell me if there is anything you absolutely don’t like.”
“A safe word?”
“Yes, like red for stop.” He further explains green and yellow, as though I am a new driver. I am tongue-tied all of a sudden, but nod my agreement.
The day passes as usual. Murtuza spends his morning at the university. Zee and I do a half day of addition and subtraction and reading, and later grab a taxi to Joggers’ Park, an oasis in the middle of smoggy Mumbai. The sea breeze washes over us when we pass through the park’s wall. Flowering shrubs ring various tracks where people saunter and speedwalk in shalvaar kameez, jeans, or running gear. A few folks actually jog. A group of elders stretch in the grassy centre.
We stand on a rock bridge that spreads over a pond with ducks, improvising a science lesson in which we identify trees and flowers, using a book Zee borrowed from the university library. The walk around the park is a unit of phys. ed.
At four-thirty, we head home and Zee presents Murtuza with his gifts: the shirt from me and a card she made by hand in “art” this week.
“Hurry, hurry, Daddy! Just rip the paper!” Zee orders, while Murtuza pretends to have difficulty with the task. Then Zee and I prepare the cake: she pokes ten candles into the icing, I light them, and carry the glowing cake out. I make them wait while I grab my phone to snap a photo of the two of them blowing out the flames. It’s the lowest-key birthday I’ve ever experienced with Murtuza.
Nafeesa arrives exactly at six. While Zee runs to get her backpack, filled with god-knows-what for an overnight — she refused to show me, and I didn’t have the energy to insist — I pull Nafeesa aside.
“Listen, I need to ask you something.”
“Yah, all right, Aunty.” She eyes me curiously. Does she know how hard it is for me to give up my child for the night?
“You know how there has been a lot of talk about khatna on social media lately?”
“Yeah, I signed the petition. Most of my friends did, too. Did you, Aunty?”
“Yes, me, too.” I try hard not to fixate on the fact that she’s been cut. I keep my eyes on her kohl-lined eyes. “If anyone talks about it in relation to Zee, you’ll tell me, right?” My face grows hot.
“No one will do that, Maasi. Don’t worry.” I note that she shifts to Maasi, referring to me as her mother’s sister. It’s meant to be an attempt at closeness, but paradoxically it makes me trust her less.
“You won’t ever leave her alone with anyone else, right?” It feels wrong to say it, but I remember Fatema’s words and add, “Including your nani?”
“Of course.”
I numbly watch her and Zee go out the door, down the corridor. They disappear, their laughter echoing from inside the elevator.
After once again checking to see if Murtuza wants to go out, I warm the previous day’s daal, rice, and kheema, and watch the sunset from the kitchen window. After dinner, side by side at the sink, we wash the dishes. We take cups of herbal tea to the couches, carefully balancing them on our laps. He picks up a novel, Aftertaste by Namita Devidayal, and holds it in front of him, the cover, half of a woman’s face, obscuring his. I’m wondering if he’s changed his mind about the blindfold and cuffs tonight.
But it’s his birthday, so I follow his lead, and read The Bohras, the book I borrowed from Abbas Kaaka. Twenty minutes and a chapter later, I sense Murtuza’s eyes on me.
“I think we’ll start now.” He peers at me over his reading glasses, his gaze disarming. It’s the way he looks at an arrogant colleague posing a three-minute-long question at an academic talk. It takes me a second to comprehend his intentions.
“Oh! Okay.” A nervous giggle escapes. I study his face and detect a slight flaring of his nostrils, his mischief tell.
“Go to the bedroom. Change into the clothing I’ve laid out on the bed. Put on the blindfold. Securely, so you cannot see anything. Then wait.” He dismisses me with a stern look and then returns to his book, appearing to read with rapt attention. I can’t think of a witty retort, so I don’t say anything. A part of me is intrigued, not wanting to interrupt his convincing roleplay, so I scurry away as I imagine I ought to.
On the bed is a black teddy. I finger the silk, recognizing the garment. Murtuza bought it for me as an anniversary gift three years ago, and I’ve worn it twice, maybe. When did he pack it?
I hear Murtuza moving about in the living room and so I discard my jeans and T-shirt in an inside-out pile on the floor and jump into the shower to wash away the day’s sweat. I towel off, pull on the lingerie. It still fits, but is snug around the middle, and sticks to my lower back and belly, humid from the shower.
I slip the blindfold over my head, admiring its softness. It’s convex-shaped so it doesn’t press against my eyelids. A ring of light leaks in around its edges. I fumble with the pillows behind my back and lean against them. Then I wait.
I count to ten, then to one hundred. My armpits dampen, prickle. I count to one hundred again. I am about to get a peek at the outside world, when Murtuza clears his throat.
“Don’t touch the blindfold.”
“Okay, okay, I wasn’t going to.” I pretend I’m not startled.
“There will be no unnecessary talk. You will be silent except to use your safe word. When I ask you to speak, you will address me as Mr. Tyebji. Do you understand.” It’s not a question. I can almost believe this is not my Murti.
“Yes.” I say this meekly, half for effect and half because it’s how I feel.
“Yes, what?” This is definitely a question.
“Yes, Mr. Tyebji.” I bite my lip to quell a giggle. For a moment, I wonder why “Doctor” or “Professor” isn’t a part of his fantasy. When we first met, the titles were still new and he seemed amused when I used them in playful moments.
I tense and inhale sharply when he checks my blindfold; I thought he was across the room, not within reach. He adjusts the straps and the ring of light disappears to blackness. He opens and shuts a drawer. After a long pause, he places cuffs around my wrists. These, too, are made from supple leather, and fit like bracelets. When both are affixed, he gently pulls my arms over my head and I hear the metal links clinking together. I give them a gentle tug, confirming my confinement.
With hands around my hips, he pulls my body down the bed, and yanks away the pillows behind me so that I drop flat on my back like a rag doll. When he pulls my legs apart, I assume there will be more restraints, but there are none. I am a stretched-out X, untethered, exposed.
“Don’t move an inch.”
“Yes, Mr. Tyebji.” Anyone
watching might think we’ve done this before.
I have no idea what he does for the next few minutes; all I hear is indistinct movement from various spots around the room. Is he doing this to confuse me? Every so often he stops and I sense his eyes upon me. He unzips and zips something. Pants? No, the sound is wrong. The pleather case that held the cuffs and blindfold? I try to remember if it held other items.
Then suddenly, he kisses me hard, pushing his tongue into my mouth. His lips are warm, insistent, and I am plunged into a tropical lake, pulled to its murky bottom. He doesn’t let up until I’m gasping for air. It’s the best kiss he’s ever laid on me in nine years. Yes. The best.
“Do that again!” I exclaim, after I’ve caught my breath.
“No talking! Apologize for your mistake,” he growls.
“I’m sorry.” Then I remember. “Mr. Tyebji.”
“Good. If you speak uninvited again, expect punishment.” Without being able to see his face, I have no way of gauging whether or not he is serious. I have never heard Murtuza say “punishment” before, not even to Zee. I wonder, Has he roleplayed this particular scene before? How does he know all the right things to say? I’m amazed that he knows all the right things to say.
“Did you hear me?” His tone is gentler now, and while I know this is all a game, I’m relieved.
“Yes, Mr. Tyebji.”
He kisses me again, in the same thrilling, asphyxiating way. I tense and curl my toes, fingers, all of me contained within that kiss. I want more, but he stops, his weight shifting off the bed. There is the sound of doors opening, closing. I can’t tell if he is still in the room. Did he leave the flat? I listen carefully for his footfalls but he is light on his feet. I resume counting in time with my heartbeats. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine …
And then he is on top of me, his whole body stretched over mine. While my chest and thighs and belly take most of his weight, it is my vulva that feels the pressure. Another kiss. He shifts his weight to give me a break, a chance to fill my lungs, and then leans into me again.
For a moment I wonder: is this his body? It’s as though he’s somehow reconfigured muscle and bone and skin to morph into someone else. Maybe it’s not him and he’s organized something else, something …? Is this my Murti? Just when I’m about to panic, call out for him, he says in a hoarse voice, “Do you remember your safe word?”
Seven Page 16
