“And then you ask her, ‘Can you tell me who to go to, someone who is clean, maybe even someone who is a doctor? Because I’d prefer hygienic conditions in a clinical environment.’”
“Perfect!” Fatema nearly yells. I want to laugh, but they are both being earnest.
“She’ll never believe me. ‘Loose values’? C’mon, she’ll be suspicious right away.”
“Maybe not. You know it plays right into her thinking. She might be relieved that you’ve crossed over to her perspective,” Fatema muses.
“She’s always had a soft spot for you. That might make her ignore any suspicions she could have. I mean, when other people were talking bad about you, she always defended you,” Zainab says.
“People talked badly about me? What’d they say?” I’m not sure why it matters, but it does.
“Oh, just things about when you were dating goras when you were in your twenties. She always said that you were a good girl and capable of making good judgments. Imagine! I only was caught smiling at a boy, and she married me off so quick.” In that moment, a confusing knot of thoughts tighten.
I love my maasi.
But how can I love her after what she did to me?
My cousins stare at me, awaiting a reply. I focus.
“And when she finds out that I’m lying to her?”
“She’ll never have to know. You just get the information, give it to me, and that’s it.” Fatema snaps her fingers.
I think, Maybe it could be that simple. I would simply be an information-gatherer.
“Yes.” Zainab nods. “Let’s do that, but instead, I’ll take part of the blame. You can say you told me the cutter’s name, and I told Fatema.”
“I don’t know,” I say, latte bile rising in my throat. “What if she asks to go along? Or what if she takes it as permission, and just takes Zee to the doctor without me?”
“Actually, you could make that work in your favour,” Fatema says, pointing at me. “You will invite her to come along, you will even say that she is a stand-in nani for Zee, since your mom won’t support it. But in the end, you won’t show up for the appointment, you will say you’ve changed your mind, perhaps we’ll say that Murtuza found out and disagreed.”
“And we won’t ever allow her to be alone with Zee, not ever, so there is no way she could take her without you knowing,” Zainab reassures.
“And then my group will take the doctor’s name to the media.”
“I don’t know. I have to talk to Murtuza about this.”
“Yes, of course, he has to be in agreement,” Zainab says.
I know he feels helpless about khatna, especially because I haven’t truly opened up to him. I’ve been treating him as though he isn’t a part of this at all.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to pull this off convincingly in person. I’m not much of an actor,” I say.
“We can script it, rehearse it,” Fatema says.
“Or here’s another idea. Mom is on email. You can say that you don’t want to talk about this in person, because the two of you are rarely alone, and you want to keep this secret. You can be more convincing over email,” Zainab adds.
Maasi has invited me over twice last week, and I’ve delayed our visit, made excuses. A part of me never wants to see her again.
“I’m supposed to go over there tomorrow with Zee.”
“Perfect. Go have a regular visit with her. Then, in the evening, send the email.”
“Wait, is she on Facebook? Does she follow the debate there? Would she know that I’m a member of that group?” I point to Zainab’s phone.
“No, Facebook is too much for Mummy. But just to be sure, let’s both leave the group.” I watch her swipe her phone open, squint into the screen, and make the changes. I log on to the café’s free WiFi and do the same.
“Before I forget, Muffadal — the driver who took us to Dholka? — he called and gave my assistant his maasi’s number. For you.” She passes me a piece of paper that says Banu +919833620880.
“I’d forgotten all about her.” I absent-mindedly slip the number into my notebook.
Later, going home in a taxi, I reflect on the “plan” and wonder whether Fatema and Zainab crafted it in advance. I feel as though I’ve lost Beh Thrun Panch three times in a row. I replay the conversation, shake the thought away.
FORTY-SIX
After Zee is in bed, I share my cousins’ idea with Murtuza.
“Let’s do pros and cons.” He rips a piece of paper from a legal pad and readies himself to take notes on a bisected piece of paper. I pat his arm.
“All right. Pros: help the cause.”
“Which might be empowering for you?”
I nod and he scribbles.
“Cons: she may find out and be angry, even if they take the blame.”
“Anything else?”
I shake my head, can’t think of anything. He points out the longer pro side.
“But it’s deceitful, right?”
“Think of it as our tiny contribution to ending this practice,” he says. I register him saying “our.” I place my hand on his thigh and feel its solidness.
“I think I’ve been making it more complicated. Like we’re ganging up on Maasi or something?” I venture, trying to make sense of the emotional soup splashing in my mind.
“It’s not like she doesn’t deserve to be confronted.” He pulls away, looks at me closely.
“Maybe, but I don’t want to do that. I am not ready for that. I can’t do that.” I hear my voice growing shrill, my body overheating. “It wasn’t all her fault.”
“What do you mean? She intentionally disrespected your parents’ instructions. Imagine if someone did that to us, to Zee?” His voice has risen, too, both of us too loud to hear each other.
“Don’t pressure me!” I stand, take a few steps away, shake my head. We both go silent for a minute.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to pressure you,” Murtuza finally says.
“I know, Murti.… Listen, I know it doesn’t make any sense. It’s just that I can’t really get my head around the idea that she wanted to harm me. She grew up in this culture, right? She would have truly believed that she was doing the right thing. If anyone is to blame, it’s her mother, her grandmother, her great-grandmother,” I say, waving my arm farther back with each generation. “It’s probably Abdoolally’s fault! Or his mother’s fault!”
For a second, a hot wind blows through my brain and I can’t think.
“Okay, okay.” Murtuza stands, takes both of my hands in his, looks me in the eye. “I get what you are saying.”
He guides me back to the couch.
“It’s so … confusing. I know she’s to blame, but I don’t … want to hold her … solely responsible, you know? And she’s my favourite aunt, the one who treated me the best … it’s all really mixed up for me.”
“You don’t have to blame her. Keep it simple. We’ll just get the information about the cutter. Or maybe we don’t have to do anything at all. It’s up to us to decide, right?” Once again, I hear his use of first-person plural.
“You’d like to do this? You want to be a part of this, too?”
“Yeah.” He nods, exhaling in that way that tells me his patience is wearing thin. “Khatna affects me too, right? It harmed you, but it impacts us, our relationship. It would feel good to actually be able to do something about all of this, take some kind of direct action. I think men should be more involved.”
“Right.” I pat his arm. “They should. You should.”
I watch him go to kitchen, open the fridge, and pour glasses of water. I follow him, open a bottle of wine, and carry two glasses, by their stems, to the living room. Then I fetch my laptop from the kitchen.
“Why don’t we begin a draft now?” I say.
“You think?”
“Well, I’m going to see her tomorrow.” I open my inbox and then my email. I reach for my wine; my mind is as blank as the screen.
“You want me to
start?”
I nod and pass him the laptop. I listen to the clicking of the keyboard, the staccato, irregular beats of his thoughts spilling out. I read over his shoulder.
Dear Tasnim Maasi,
As I’ve grown older, I find myself connecting more to our traditions. I’ve been thinking lately that I might like to have khatna done for my daughter before we leave. You see, I’d like her to have a strong sense of her culture, and it’s sometimes difficult to do that in the West. An initiatory rite like this would be good. I understand that it can be done by a doctor these days, which makes it a safe procedure. Can you refer me to a doctor for this? Please keep this confidential.
“That sounds good.” Of course, it sounds heinous because it’s khatna. But also, this is the first time I’ll be lying to my aunt; I never had to, not like I did with my parents.
“Anything to add?” Murtuza asks, drawing me back to our task.
“Start a new paragraph at ‘I understand.’ Oh, and simplify the language there.” I point to “initiatory rite.”
“I guess ‘barbaric rite’ won’t work?” he mutters. “How’s ‘traditional cultural practice’?”
“Too academic. Just say ‘tradition.’”
“Let’s add that this is urgent?”
“Good idea, I want this to be over and done with before Mom arrives.” I don’t want to pile on to what’s already going to be a hair-raising showdown between my mother and Maasi.
“What should the subject line be?”
“How about ‘Important question about Zee’? No wait, just use her first initial. I don’t want her name attached to this,” I venture. He nods, types it in, then turns to me.
“You all right?” He studies my face. Do I look weird? I relax my jaw.
“Yes.” I reread the email, and lean over him to save it in the draft folder. There is still time, I tell myself. I won’t send this until tomorrow. “I’m sure.”
I expect our visit with Maasi to be strange, but it isn’t. Zee sidles up to her, just as I would have done as a child, allowing Maasi to kiss her cheek and feed her a biscuit. After a time, Zee asks to play games on my tablet.
We make chai in the kitchen and I carry the two cups to Maasi’s sitting room. With a slight tremble, she pours half of her tea into a saucer and lets the masala steam escape. She lifts the saucer to her lips and slurps, the loudest slurp she can possibly make, and looks Zee’s way. The mischief distracts Zee from her angry birds, and Maasi slurp-slurp-slurps again, making Zee laugh out loud; now that she knows Maasi’s games, she no longer hesitates to enjoy them. I follow her lead, pouring and drinking from my saucer, but I can’t seem to amplify my sips, because my heart isn’t in it.
I put down my saucer, and watch the two of them. These antics are reserved for Zee alone, as they once were for me; Zainab told me, with a measure of envy, that Maasi is as strict with her kids as she was with her. What internal rule makes her the serious matriarch with her direct bloodline, but the clown with us?
Maasi’s already wrinkled face is crinkled with mirth. I can imagine her thirty-three years younger, my special maasi, eyes twinkling just for me. I try to picture her taking me, Fatema, and Zainab to the cutter’s apartment.
I don’t have these details — Fatema didn’t offer them — but I visualize a three-storey rundown building, like the ones in this old Bandra neighbourhood. We pull open a heavy door, crowd into a manual lift, the kind that buzzes until you’ve properly closed the rusting metal grates, and are jolted up. Then down a short hallway. The three of us might have jostled to ring a doorbell in a childish competition for joy. A woman we don’t recognize comes to the door and we are ushered in quickly, the adults speaking in hushed tones. Something doesn’t feel right; Maasi looks tense and wafts a piquant sweat. What’s this place? Fatema might have asked aloud, the question that I, too, would have been thinking.
The flat is dark, heavy curtains veiling the windows. We pass a living room. Its furniture is shabby, the upholstery faded where lethargic bodies rested, the wood stain of table legs worn where restless toes rubbed. I don’t think these are details Fatema related. Could they be memory?
I imagine-remember Maasi pulling the old woman, Munira Aunty, aside. I know her name now. Or have I always known her name?
We three kids might have picked up on the adults’ agitation, wondered about our detour from our Kwality ice-cream-procuring excursion. And yet, we trusted that the elders would eventually take us there. As they did.
“Want more chai?” Maasi asks. I take our cups to the kitchen. I light the gas stove, wait for the chai to reheat. Munira Aunty’s kitchen might have looked just like this one, only smaller, and dimmer. I picture paint peeling from mildewed walls. As a child, whenever I pointed out details like this, signs of neglect or damage in people’s homes, my mother would shush me and later educate: Not everyone is as fortunate as we are.
I refill our cups, and carry them to the living room. Zee is now seated next to Maasi, explaining how her game works.
“Let me try.” Maasi takes the tablet and follows Zee’s instructions.
“Now! Press here! No, here!” she says, and Maasi’s bigger and less nimble fingers fumble.
I smile at them, but again, my mind is carried away — am I getting carried away? — to Munira Aunty’s living room. From there, we were prodded forward by the older girl, the cutter’s grandchild, Sherbanoo, to a bedroom, a space just past the decrepit kitchen. My mind draws a mental map of the flat for me.
The medium-sized bedroom is much like Abbas Kaaka’s high-ceilinged widower’s room. Instead of the family tree, there is a crack reaching wispy fingers up the wall, and spiderwebs dangle listlessly from the ceiling. I know this last description must be false, for unlike North American homes, I’ve never seen an Indian flat with cobwebs; there are always women available to sweep them away.
Fatema’s information fills in the scene now, and I see myself perched at the edge of a twin-sized bed with Fatema, Zainab, and Sherbanoo. But my brain takes over, creating dialogue. Don’t be afraid, Sherbanoo might have said, and when Maasi collected Zainab, she might have told us, Be good girls, and then shut the door.
What standard are you in? Sherbanoo may have asked us, as we waited, listening to the sounds of muffled cries coming from two rooms away. I may have replied, We don’t call them standards. We call them grades in the U.S. I’m going into second grade. Fatema, the one more likely to ask questions, might have demanded, What are they doing? And the older girl might have said, I’m in standard six. The cries from the living room might have stopped then, and we may have all listened to the silence before Sherbanoo non-answered Fatema’s query with See, it’s nothing. Very fast. Nothing to worry about at all. She might have blocked the door when Fatema stood to open it. And then Zainab was brought in, a strange calm in her eyes as she obediently followed the script she had been given: It was easy, like going to the doctor and getting a needle.
And then it would have been my turn.
“Yes, you won!” Zee squeals, interrupting my imagined-memory, my non-memory, or hyper-imagination. Why was it all so vivid in my mind? I pull a notebook from my purse and scribble it all down before it blows away like a pile of dried leaves in a windstorm.
I breathe, listen to Zee tell the aunt I love the most to play again. I watch my girl’s face soften with pleasure as my aunt’s gentle hands stroke it.
Then I remember that I have a mission. I stuff my notebook away.
“Okay, okay, enough. You play now,” Maasi tells Zee and we return to drinking chai, this time sans slurping. I must look normal, present, ordinary, because she asks me to tell her about the trip to Ahmedabad.
I’ve gone over this with Murtuza. I must wait. On the way out the door, I will mention to her that there is something sensitive I want to talk with her about, but I don’t want to do it with Zee present, so I will send her an email tonight. I must stick to the script.
I open my phone, flip through a few dozen photos of
buildings, offering the bare bones of the trip, scraping away the meat of the story. I scrape it all away. Maasi takes in my visual storytelling with polite interest.
“You know I’ve only been there once myself. A long time ago. Not much seems to have changed.”
I check the time, tell Maasi we should get a move on. I pack our things, and tell Zee to run ahead and press the lift button. At the door, I muster an earnest look, manage to blurt, “I’m going to send you an email about something important.” My eyes tear up a little, but that isn’t part of the plan. Zee yells that the elevator has arrived, and I rush away.
FORTY-SEVEN
Bombay, 1911
Maimuna waited for his reply. He only glowered at her.
“Did something happen in Dholka to upset you?” She repeated her question.
He counted the years: ten since the divorce, ten since he’d seen her. He’d barely thought about Zehra over the decade. So much had happened. His printing press and stationery business had grown. He’d bought and sold land. He’d married Maimuna eight years ago, and they’d had two daughters. She was pregnant again. Ten years had passed.
So why had the brief interaction with Zehra bothered him so? He’d been unable to sleep properly since, and it felt like a rock had settled in his stomach. His mind continually roved back to their conversation, the way she seemed to look right through him. An old melancholy, the kind he’d felt after Sharifa’s passing, settled upon him. But why? He hadn’t loved Zehra that way, and after her foolishness, it was a straightforward decision to divorce her. Yet none of this felt the least bit straightforward.
“Did you know that Zehra moved to Dholka?” he snapped, his question an accusation.
“Zehra? Zehra Slatewala? The one you …” She didn’t finish her sentence. They hadn’t ever talked about Zehra, or, for that matter, Shaheeda or Sharifa. He hadn’t permitted it. But of course she knew of all of them, had even met Zehra when she was married to Asghar. Everyone knew. While her parents were pleased for her marriage to Abdoolally, given his affluence and her widowhood, her nani had wondered aloud if Abdoolally’s string of bad marital luck would somehow infect her, too.
Seven Page 24
