Normally it was Rumana who travelled south, but she’d recently fallen ill and cancelled her trip to Bombay. He’d use the visit as an opportunity to check on his printing press, ensure that his manager’s reports were accurate.
Rumana greeted him at the door. When she rose after finishing the salaam, he realized they were almost the same height now. She was seventeen and he hoped she’d stopped growing, for if she were too tall it would be hard to find her a husband.
“You look so much like your mother these days,” he said. A gauzy silver orna draped over her long black hair and looped over a blue blouse that cut low across her small cleavage.
“Really?” she asked, smiling. He nodded, but then he wasn’t quite sure. It had been a dozen years since Shaheeda’s death and he could barely mentally call up her face anymore. He studied Rumana’s features and Zehra’s confident demeanour came to his mind instead. He brushed the thought away.
“Are you feeling better now?” He looked into her unusual topaz eyes and then recalled, Yes. Those are Shaheeda’s eyes.
“Yes, much. I’m still a little weak, but if you’d waited, I could have come to Bombay in a few days, to not waste so much of your time, Papa.”
“I do think the air here is better for you. Bombay is getting so congested.”
The next day, he visited his printing press, and found everything in tip-top shape, as though someone had warned the staff of his arrival. Of course, Dholka was a small town, and he was a big man, so word must have travelled to the manager. He inspected the large room and its monster-like metal machines, all of which were clean — too clean — for the middle of a business day. On his walk back through the main street of town, he stopped in at a local sweet shop and bought a pound of burfi for Rumana and Shehnaz. He paused outside the hosiery store beside it, and looked in its windows, admiring the men’s kurtas on display. Just as he was about to move on, a woman stepped out of the store, carrying a large parcel. He made room for her, and they locked eyes. No. It couldn’t be! Zehra?
Her initial look of shock turned to something that resembled a flickering warmth.
“Hello, Abdoolally, khem cho? How have you been all these years?”
He nodded to her, but his mouth was dry, wordless. What was she doing in Dholka?
“Did you buy those for Rumana?” Zehra pointed to his box of burfi. The sun glinted off her wedding ring. He’d heard she’d remarried, but didn’t listen to the details when his daughter, Raushan, had shared the gossip years ago. He hadn’t wanted to know.
“Yes,” he stammered. “What are you doing here? Visiting someone?”
“Oh no. I live here. I’ve been here for the last ten years.” Her lips lifted into a sad smile. Then, gesturing with her chin to his box, she said, “She’ll like those. They are her favourite sweets.”
FORTY-FIVE
I carry two lattes to the patio table Zainab has scored for us, after hovering close to a pair of young men who’d long finished their coffees. It’s been a week since we last saw one another, a week since Dholka.
“Wow, Mumbai hipsters are just like Manhattan hipsters,” I say, watching the guys depart.
“I don’t like that hairstyle.” She’s referring to the guy with the bun perched atop his head.
“Well, sometimes good things come when men mess with gender rules.” I’m echoing Laura’s opinion; she’d scolded me when I’d similarly mocked a man-bun.
“Look at this.” Zainab leans over our table and points to her phone. On the screen is the Facebook page for Fatema’s activist group.
“You joined?” I sip from my bowl. The froth leaves a faint moustache before I lick it away.
“Well, yes. Just checking it out, only. I wanted to see what they are discussing.” I, too, joined the group, about a month ago, but after the first few glances I stopped lurking. I just can’t handle reading any more articles about khatna, and worse, I don’t want to read the bitter backlash comments that litter the page. It’s enough that I know my own story now; I don’t want to be an activist about something so personal.
“I’ve been talking with my friends, you know, quietly. We’ve been told by our amil to keep away from this group.”
“Really? I can’t believe elderly clerics have Facebook profiles!”
“Don’t be silly. They use Facebook, Twitter, and all the apps to communicate with the community. They are very modern, hightech. They are monitoring these groups.”
“I had no idea.”
“Some of my friends, you know the ladies in my menege group? They won’t join but some want to talk. So I have been telling them that I am just realizing it can do more damage than good.” She brushes away a tear.
“Oh, Zainab.” Has she been suffering this week? I’ve been meaning to check in with her, but didn’t get around to it.
“You know, a few months ago, Nafeesa came to me and questioned me about khatna — she’d signed a petition against it. She told me she was angry I took her. I didn’t listen to her, thought she was overreacting, being suggestible to things she was reading. And then … last week … just after getting home from Dholka … I started thinking about it. About how Sharmeen had bled a lot. And how Nafeesa cried after … oh, Allah! I did that to them!” More tears come, and her face turns pink.
“Zainab, you didn’t know. You were just doing what you’d been told was right.”
“I didn’t question anything. I should have. Why didn’t I? I used to be so much more daring when I was young. But somehow that all changed after I got married. Astaghfirullah.”
“Oh, Zainab …” The weight of her regret is palpable.
“I’ve spent the week reading, and talking to people. Maybe I can help others understand. I feel … I feel that now I need to make up for my ignorance.” She reaches for her hankie.
“That’s good,” I tell her, squeezing her shoulder. “You might have an impact. Maybe more of an impact than petitions and social media. You might change their minds through conversation. But … but take your time. You’re still sorting this all out yourself, aren’t you?”
She shakes her head, brushes away my suggestion.
“But what if Sharmeen or Nafeesa have problems like Fatema or you? Because I have always had no issues,” her voice hushes, and she tucks a loose lock of hair into her rida. “I never thought it would harm them.”
“They might. Or they might not. You should talk to them so that they will understand what’s going on with their bodies.” I run my fingers over the smooth ceramic bowl. What if I’d learned about this when I was Nafeesa’s or Sharmeen’s age? What if I hadn’t had to read all those books, guessed at the problem? If I’d sorted it out early on, maybe I could have turned things around. My chest tightens at the idea that it’s too late now, that sex will always be a problem. My head begins to fog and I shake away the fear. I can’t think about it now. I gulp my latte.
Zainab scrolls down the page and reads aloud. I try to listen, but I’m distracted by a fruit seller passing on the sidewalk, sing-songing about papayas for sale.
“The East Brunswick, New Jersey, jamaat — that’s your jamaat, correct? It has issued a letter telling their congregants they must follow the law of the land and not perform khatna in the United States. They must also not take their daughters to another country to have khatna done. And look, there are other letters posted, from England, from Australia, from Canada, and five others from the U.S.”
“All of this in reaction to the legal case in Australia.”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if Mom has seen this yet? She’s no longer active with the jamaat, so maybe not.” I scan the screen.
“Maasi Nisrin arrives soon, no?” she asks, referring to my mother.
“In a couple of weeks.” Actually, in thirteen days.
“Have you talked with her yet about …?” She doesn’t finish her sentence. Neither do I.
“I’m waiting to talk in person.”
“She’s going to be upset with my mother
.” Her eyebrows rise, turning the statement into a question. She is aware of the degree to which her mother betrayed my mother. And then I think, We three girls have been keeping quiet for over three decades, unknowingly protecting that sister relationship.
“Did your mom think the secret would be watertight forever?” I mutter.
“I doubt she thought that far ahead. Oh, boy, they are going to have a fight.”
I nod, but I cannot process that yet. I point to Zainab’s screen. “This is good news, right? People will follow these instructions?” I want to be hopeful.
“Well, the comments I’m reading say that these letters might only be for show, a way to avoid legal trouble like what happened at the Sydney jamaat.”
“I think people will follow the local laws.” But what do I know? The last time I was at the East Brunswick jamaat was for my father’s prayers and burial.
“Insh’allah,” Zainab says, nodding. “I mean, at least for those on the fence, or those who don’t want to be in any kind of trouble.”
“Or maybe they might become more secretive?”
“Possible. But how much more secretive can Bohras be about this?” She rolls her eyes. I meet her mischievous gaze and snort at the ridiculousness and truth of her statement.
“I know! We were tricked by your mom and Nani. They tricked my mom and Fatema’s parents. And probably their mother was tricked by someone. It’s all so cloak and dagger.” Then I shudder, when the blade’s imagery comes to mind.
Fatema arrives, full of energetic apologies and excuses about a teleconference that ran long. We catch her up on our conversation, and Zainab shows Fatema her smartphone.
“Yes, we’re still waiting for another couple dozen letters from jamaats all over Canada, the U.S., and Europe. And of course, Saifee Mahal, but that one’s a bigger fight.” She points behind her, in the direction of the Syedna’s residence, a few kilometres away.
“Do you think that will ever happen?” I glance at the road, spot an old man ambling on the footpath that edges the café’s patio. He is stooped, has a long beard, and wears the typical topi and white kurta of an orthodox Bohra man. Zainab and Fatema look his way, too. I want to say that he looks like Abdoolally, but I refrain; they will tease me for seeing a ghost. Since beginning this research, I have been imagining seeing our great-great-grandfather everywhere. Then it comes to me: here in Mumbai, there are many Abdoolallys in our midst. Many of the senior orthodox men here resemble him at least a little, having held on tightly, or reverted to, the ways of the previous century, as though their long beards, topis, and kurtas will protect them from modernity’s ills. I imagine Abdoolally would have found this strategy disconcerting. Or would he?
“Is that your Zoeb Mama?” Zainab asks, referring to Fatema’s maternal uncle.
“I don’t think so.” Fatema squints in his direction. The barista brings her drink and she takes a sip without thanking him.
I turn to watch the old Bohra man again.
“It is your Zoeb Mama!” Zainab waves at him and he makes his way over.
“Arré! Why did you have to do that?” Fatema grumbles at Zainab. She stands to greet her slowly approaching uncle. She takes his hand and goes through the motions of a salaam. He gracefully pulls away in mock embarrassment of her deference. Next, Zainab and he repeat the performance. Then they introduce me; he is from Fatema’s mother’s side, a line I don’t know that well.
“Oh, the last time I saw you, it was many years back. I think you were a teenager.” He takes my hand in both of his.
“Chalo, come sit, Mamaji, have some tea with us.” Fatema pulls a chair from a neighbouring table.
“Na, na, Dayam is waiting at home for these.” He points to a bag of onions. “She’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.”
“Give her my salaams,” Fatema says.
“I just wanted to tell you, Fatema, we’ve heard about the social work you’ve been doing, the educational efforts around the females issues. And Dayam and I support it. It’s time for things to change, to progress. Anyway, come by sometime for lunch; we haven’t seen you in a long time. All of you come,” he says, looking to me and Zainab.
“Thanks, Mamaji. I will,” Fatema replies. Zainab and I nod, too, and say goodbye.
Fatema watches him head down the sidewalk, then drops into her chair.
“Did he mean —” I ask.
“Yes. ‘Females issues’ is code for khatna,” Fatema murmurs.
“Wow.” Zainab turns to watch the old man disappear around the corner.
Zainab and I order a second latte from our chair this time, benefiting from Fatema’s status.
“Listen, you two, I have been thinking.” Fatema glances side to side, leans in, and lowers her voice. “Those jamaat letters are bullshit. Won’t accomplish anything. Even that conviction in Australia will be appealed. We have to do something here in India, to shake things up. The problem is that FGM hasn’t been banned here.”
“Won’t your group’s petition accomplish that? Make it illegal?”
The server arrives with our drinks.
“Maybe, but that will take a long time. We still need tens of thousands more signatures, then we have to present it to the ministers, then they will go through their whole process, which can take eons. And they will need as much popular support as possible. Our members have been publishing articles and so on, but we need to do something now. Something dramatic, to get more attention.”
“Like what?” Zainab’s eyes are bright. The conversation is having an opposite effect on me. I gulp back my latte, hoping to counteract the drowsiness.
“We need to name the cutters. The problem is that none of our members have been able to access this information, or don’t want to share it if it implicates their families. Some are also very tied into the community and prefer to not get too controversial. We’ve tried a number of avenues.”
“You really think that will have an impact? Going public with their names?” I challenge.
“People in our community hate public embarrassment. They might avoid that particular cutter or the cutter might stop.” She looks less sure of herself now. “Well, it can’t hurt to expose them, anyway. They deserve it.”
“Fewer cutters could mean fewer khatnas, maybe? And since it’s legal here they won’t go to jail, right? Just embarrassment? That’s good,” Zainab says.
“Do you know her name? The woman who did us? I assume she’s dead by now,” Fatema asks Zainab.
“She died last year. Her name was Munira Aunty. Mom and I took my girls to her when they were small,” Zainab says, the pink returning to her face. “She was very old.”
“Munira Aunty,” I repeat, the small hairs at the back of my neck standing tall. Perspiration prickles my armpits.
“You know her, Shari?” Zainab asks.
“No, I don’t think so. Her name sounds familiar, somehow.” I search my brain, but there is only a feeling, a glimmer of recognition.
“I wonder who took her place. Would she have an apprentice? Do they work like that?” Fatema pushes on.
“Probably. Mom will know. But she might not tell me, now. I broached the subject yesterday and told her I support your group’s efforts. We had a disagreement.”
“You did?” I turn to her, shocked. I’m awake now. “What did she say?”
“I raised it in a sort of current events kind of way. I didn’t talk about us. I couldn’t … discuss it like that. It’s still very … emotional for me.” She lifts her cup, takes a drink. Her cup rattles on the way down.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have too much coffee, Zainab.” I pat her back.
“Good for you! I’m proud of you for speaking your mind to her!” Fatema praises, raising her cup into the air.
“It makes sense you’re emotional about it. So am I.” My voice wavers.
“I think if I ask her about the new cutter, she will be suspicious. She knows I’m spending more time with Fatema these days. And there would be no reason for me t
o need to know: my daughters are well past that age and it will be years before they would take their daughters. Not that I will encourage them,” she says, her words speeding up. She takes in a shallow breath, then another. “I will actively discourage them; I feel so responsible.”
“Okay, okay, just breathe. Everything is okay,” I counsel. Zainab starts to pant, beads of sweat now on her forehead. Fatema jumps up, asks the server to bring water to the table. A pitcher and three glasses arrive.
“I’m so hot,” Zainab whispers.
“Can I take this off?” Fatema asks, untying the collar strings of Zainab’s rida.
“Okay.” Fatema pulls off the hood, and I lift the rida up and over Zainab’s head. The action reminds me of undressing Zee late at night, limp as a rag doll. Under the garment, Zainab wears a hot pink T-shirt with the word COOL in bejewelled lettering. I can’t help myself; I sputter into giggles. Then Fatema sees it, too, and laughs. Zainab looks down at her chest, catches the joke, and smiles through her ragged exhalations.
“My kids … gave it to me … on my last birthday. Because … I am so … cool.” We sit quietly for a few minutes, waiting for her to fully recover.
Finally, she stops sweating, and pulls the top of her rida back on.
“I just had an idea about how to get the information.” Zainab loops her hood strings tightly, makes a knot.
“Zainab … please, stay calm.” I don’t want us to trigger another panic.
“How?” Fatema asks.
Zainab sips water and shares her brainwave: she thinks I should be the one to ask Tasnim Maasi. I will say that I’ve been watching the controversy unfold, that I know what it’s like to grow up in the West, with all of its loose values, and that, although I’m not certain it will help, I’d like to offer Zee khatna, just in case it might assist her. Her words are ludicrous, nonsensical.
“You’ll tell my mom that she is the perfect age, it’s almost like it’s meant to be. And because it is prohibited in the United States, you will do it in Mumbai before you leave.” I stare at Zainab, dumbfounded, as she continues.
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