“Yes. Of course, that Zehra! Who else would I be talking about? Did you know that she lives close to Rumana?”
“I heard that, yes.” She took a step back from him, placed a hand over her belly, as if shielding it from his raised voice.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.
“It was none of my business.” Maimuna looked down at her round stomach and then said softly, “And … it was bad enough that Rumana lost her first mother. Wasn’t it good luck that she could grow up knowing her second mother?”
“But she’s the wrong kind of influence for my daughter!” he growled. “You know what she did!”
“Yes, but that was all taken care of, no? Rumana is a good girl. So whatever her influences, she has turned out fine. You don’t need to worry.” She patted his back where his spine had begun to curve.
“Bring me chai.” He dismissed her. He wanted to be alone. He was a man of great leadership, wealth, and intelligence. But in that moment, he knew he’d been a fool.
FORTY-EIGHT
The next morning, Maasi’s reply arrives.
I am glad that you are taking matters into your own hands. It’s a mother’s decision and her duty to remove the haraam ki boti.
A rough translation of the last three words: sinful flesh. The hood of the clitoris, the focus of a woman’s evil.
Not to worry, things have changed lately, and while most people still do it the traditional way, I know khatna can be performed at the Shifa Hospital.
This is one of the hospitals dedicated to the care of the Bohra community. “Traditional way” means shabby flats and old ladies and fear.
I’ve been told they use an anaesthetic cream. The whole thing from start to finish will take less than twenty minutes. Most of it is waiting for the freezing to kick in. Then the doctor will come in, do a tiny cut that Zee won’t even feel, and she’ll be sent home with an antiseptic cream. It’s very safe, modern, and easy.
How does she know these details?
I think back to my vulvar biopsy, which sounds remarkably similar to what she describes. I applied a pain-dulling cream twenty minutes in advance, then the doctor injected freezing, the most painful part of the procedure, in the three biopsy locations. Then I waited there, alone, in the examining room, waiting to go all the way numb.
She ends off with:
I can make the appointment with Dr. Rubina Master myself and come along with you. When shall we book it?
I call Murtuza into the room, and point to the computer. He reads over my shoulder.
“Congratulations, we have what we need.” His gaze is glued to the screen. Perhaps he’s reading it a second time, absorbing it all.
“She makes it sound so routine. Clinical,” I say, dully.
“Like a trip to the dentist.”
I wonder if it’s just coincidence or if he recalls that this is how I described the biopsy.
“She must really believe that this is good for Zee.” I lower my voice and look over at my daughter, who sits in the living room, her face scrunched up as she carefully colours in a map of India. It’s a geography morning.
“I guess.” He, too, turns his gaze to Zee.
“Do you think it’s less traumatic when people do it this way? I mean, this way there are no infections, pain, or wrong cuts,” I whisper. I’m not sure what I’m getting at.
“Well, we don’t know the incidence of infections. But this is certainly a wrong cut,” he says quietly. He touches my shoulder. “Right?”
“Right. Yes. I just mean the traumatic part is no longer there. You know? It would be less scary, and maybe less of a surprise and not a lie? If a child is told that she is going to a clinic to have a procedure done?”
“Maybe. But there would still be the long-term risks. Scarring. Nerve damage, sexual issues.”
“But what I’m saying is that maybe the biggest consequences arise from pain, from the scariness of it all. From the lie.” My voice grows louder as we circle around. He shushes me, gestures to Zee, who is still focused on her work. She doesn’t like colouring outside of the lines. I take a deep breath.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. Do you find the medical procedure acceptable?” He’s using his professor tone now.
“No! No, it’s still bad. I … I don’t know. We put baby boys through medical circumcisions all the time, in the name of religion. Hardly anyone complains about that.”
“Some people complain about it. One day people might look back and realize it’s archaic, too. And I don’t think you can compare foreskin removal to cutting the clitoral hood, which is far more delicate, Sharifa.” He only ever uses my full name when he lectures. I glare at him angrily, and then rub my eyes, my face, my jaw. Everything feels taut. I hear him exhale, then feel him pat my back, then stroke my hair. I push his hand away.
He attempts. “Tell me what’s upsetting you, Shari.”
“I just … wonder … I mean, what made me so messed up? Was it a bad cut? Was it the fear? Would this have been a neutral thing if it had been viewed the way male circumcision is? If it wasn’t a secret, if it was done by a doctor?”
“Maybe. I mean, I was circumcised, as were all the men I know. It’s no secret, it’s a rite of passage that is widely accepted. I don’t feel any shame or discomfort connected to it. Male circumcision isn’t about controlling sexuality. It’s purported to be about cleanliness, which might be dubious, too —”
He’s about to say more but I interrupt. “But not all khatna survivors are messed up. Zainab is just fine.” But then I remember her recent panic attacks.
“Khatna is also a grave betrayal of trust. That’s the basis of trauma. You and your mother trusted your aunt and Nani to do the best for you and then instead they did something harmful, something that shattered your trust.” He blinks, looks up, as though trying to remember something.
“Oh, god. You’ve been reading.” He doesn’t usually speak in psychological jargon.
“I have been reading … a little.” He flashes me a self-conscious smile.
I stand, stretch, make myself breathe. Zee looks at me, curiously, and I am glad for her distraction.
“How’s it going?”
“Almost finished.”
“Okay, finish up then and then we’ll do something else.”
I look to Murtuza. He wrings his hands. I consider his words. I’ll never know if it was a bad cut or the fear. But he’s right, what I do know is that I trusted them, and they did something harmful for all the wrong reasons.
This clarity is something, at least.
“Want me to draft a reply?”
I nod and he slides the computer onto his lap and begins to tap.
I go over to Zee, compliment her on her work. She points out all the states in India, and explains her colour choices.
“Are we done school yet today?” she asks, and I check the time. Technically, she should continue geography for another half hour. There’s a video about Mumbai’s flora and fauna I could get her to watch while Murtuza and I finish the email to Maasi. It’s not part of the curriculum, but it might be interesting. I find it on the tablet and plug in her headphones, noting that we have seven minutes and forty seconds.
I return to Murtuza, who has finished. He reads aloud:
Dear Maasi,
Thanks for all of this information. I’m afraid I cannot do the khatna after all. I spoke with Murtuza about it last night. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but it’s hard for me to keep secrets from him. He is very against it — I was actually very surprised he was so upset about it. I don’t think he will change his mind. And I can’t make a decision about Zee without his agreement.
See you soon,
Shari
“Change the ‘see you soon’ to ‘love,’” I instruct, and he makes the edit.
“Do we send it?”
“Yes, and blind copy it to Fatema. And Zainab.” He accidentally adds them on the cc line, then catches his error.
“Crap.
We’re not very good at being spies, are we?” A laugh sputters out like a hiccup. He stares at the screen, double-checking everything.
“Wait, does it make sense that you decided to talk to me about it? I mean, will she wonder why you’d do that?” His eyes dart left and right. His question alarms me; I try to think, but my mind is crowded, a storage space cluttered with useless objects.
“What other reason can we give for why I’d back out so fast?”
“What if you said that I borrowed your laptop, and then saw the subject line of the email thread, and then got curious, you know, because it has to do with Zee.”
“Okay …”
“And then I was angry and confronted you about it? It adds more tension this way.” He waves his arms in a creative flourish. I wait for the penny to drop, for his hands to still.
“Well, we know that scenario is realistic, anyhow.” I stare at the gold band on his ring finger and, as I’ve done many times before, thank god that we made it through the affair.
“Huh, yeah.” There is a slight smile on his face that grows wider. Not a grin, exactly, for that would be asking too much, but still. It’s the first time in many years that we’ve even touched the subject of the affair.
“All right, change the second sentence to say all of that instead.” I watch the gold band bounce with each keyboard strike. When he’s finished, he reads the new lines aloud to me. I left my laptop open and Murtuza read our emails. He was very angry that I would plan something like this without his knowledge and he is very much against khatna — he sees it as harmful. We had a big fight. I can’t go ahead or keep secrets from him.
“It does sound more dramatic. And believable.”
I reread it, imagining Maasi digesting it, her lips turning downward, her eyebrows hunching into a frown.
“I think it works.”
“Want to sleep on it, and send it tomorrow?”
“Send it. I want this over and done with.”
The email leaves me nauseous all day, and I obsessively check my messages, waiting for a reply. Eventually, my phone rings, and Maasi’s name fills the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Sharifa. Can you talk? Is Murtuza there?”
“No, he’s out with Zee.”
“I’ve been thinking about the problem,” she says, her voice melodic, reasonable-sounding. “Another way to do it is for you and Zee to stay behind, to change your flights, and then we can do it after Murtuza is back in America.”
I freeze. Was she the one to suggest to my parents that I stay behind in India? Was that a khatna scheme? No, no. My mom and dad and I all talked it over before the trip, and in the end it was my decision. I’d wanted to spend an extra month with my cousins.
“Hmm,” I say, waiting for my head to clear. “I don’t know, Maasi, I’d feel bad about doing something so dishonest. He’d never forgive me if he found out.” My mind spools backward again. Does she even remember her duplicity?
“Fathers these days are different than in the past, so involved.” Her tone sounds mocking.
“Yes. And even if I didn’t say anything, Zee probably would. She’s a little chatterbox,” I say, not recognizing my own words. When have I ever described my expressive child in this way?
“It’s true. They are very close.” Again, there is something bitter in her tone. “Did you know he’d be against it?”
“We’ve never discussed it. It makes sense in hindsight. He tends to lean toward being against the religion, while I’m more in the middle. I like many of our traditions.” I force my voice to remain neutral. “But what Murtuza says also makes sense.”
“So, you agree with your husband?”
“Well, I can see both sides now. I believe this should be something Zee consents to when she is old enough to do so. As an adult. Anyway, I don’t want any more arguments with my husband,” I say with an amateur actor’s sigh, hoping she will back off.
“I think you’ve been spending too much time with Fatema. As has Zainab.” My heart jumps with the mention of my cousins. Does Maasi suspect the ruse?
“It’s not that. I just realize, after talking more with Murtuza, that it’s more complicated. I hadn’t given it enough thought before. For now, I’ve decided against it. Sorry for wasting your time.”
“All right. Okay, do what you think is best. Ultimately, it’s up to the parents to make the decision.” Her tone is conciliatory, almost sweet now. She is supportive Maasi again, non-judgmental Maasi.
After we hang up, her words play on my mind. Did she use the same words when reassuring my mother that I would remain safe?
Seeking distraction, I turn back to my Abdoolally research. When I open my notebook, Banu +919833620880 falls out. I dial the number and she picks up on the third ring.
“Hallo?” Her voice is so much like Tasnim Maasi’s.
“Banu Aunty?”
“Yes. Who’s calling?” I introduce myself and explain my research.
“Ah, yes, Muffadal told me you might phone me. Come over and meet me. But listen, I’m going to visit my daughter in Delhi tomorrow. It will have to wait until I return. I’d love to tell you all about my daadi. I was very close to her.” We set up a meeting for when she is back.
FORTY-NINE
“I listened to a podcast today. A radio documentary,” Murtuza takes my hand. “About khatna.”
“Oh, yes?” I say evenly, but inside, I am a porcupine curling into a spiky ball. Our undercover operation ended five days ago, and I want to be done with this issue. But I know Murtuza. He is an academic. He likes to learn new things from books and podcasts and films. He then enjoys synthesizing that information, pondering and theorizing, and then disseminating new theoretical knowledge. I don’t want him to do that with my experience.
“It was from a survivor who was talking about the impact it had on her sex life … and her process of reclaiming her sexuality.” He says this last part brightly, presenting me with a half-full glass.
“Okay.” I pull my hand away, cross my arms over my chest.
“Do you want to hear more?” I nod yes, but the rest of my tightly wound body signals “no.” He looks at me skeptically, so I nod again. I do appreciate the question, the effort at collaboration. I unlock my arms, fake a more open posture, push through.
“Okay, I made some notes.” He rushes over to the dining-room table, and grabs his yellow steno pad. I watch him from the couch. Years ago, during our couples’ therapy, I learned that I had the habit of withdrawing from his caring approaches. The awareness mortified me, and in moments like these, when all I want to do is pretend that Murtuza does not exist, I force myself to meet his eager gaze.
“She said a trauma therapist told her that she had to approach sex differently. That it didn’t have to be all or nothing, you know, no assumptions about where it was going to go. That she could stop and start wherever she needed, whenever she felt uncomfortable.” He takes a breath, and his words speed up, all of them escaping in one long ramble. “That she had to voice if she didn’t like something or wanted something different, instead of pretending it was okay. The therapist said this is the path to healing, for the survivor to learn how to be in control of her own body.”
“Hmmm.” It hadn’t occurred to me that there was a path to healing. Why?
“She — the survivor I mean — said that she had to find a partner she could trust, to have sex like it was her first time, as if she and her partner were exploring it all like something new, something co-created.”
“I can’t even imagine that.”
“For example, we might start kissing, and then if you feel bad, you could say, thanks, that’s all I want to do right now. Or we might be in the middle of, you know, intercourse? And you could do that. Or you might say I don’t like how this or that feels.” His eyes look strange to me, his eyebrows stretched high. This man, this sweet man.
“That creates healing?”
“I guess the idea is that when you get to feel more
in control, you prove to yourself that you have the control, whereas the khatna would have taught you the opposite. The woman in the documentary said this process made her feel more present during sex, because it undid the message the trauma gave her.”
“One terrible day when I was seven would teach me I have no control? I dunno, Murtuza, I feel like I do know how to say no. It’s not like we do anything I don’t actually like.” I try to bat away his arguments, but then it dawns on me, that if I’m not completely there, how would I know? Do I feel in control of my body? Maybe I do, and I don’t, at the same time.
“It’s really up to you. It is your body.” His eyes are soft.
“You wouldn’t be disappointed? If I said, ‘Thanks, that’s all I want’? Like, in the middle of things?”
“Maybe a little bit in the moment. But in the documentary she said it was how she figured out some new boundaries. So it might be strange at first, but it could help. And I’d be really happy if that happened for you.”
“What if it doesn’t, and instead all we get is a lot of interrupted sex? Then neither of us will be having any fun. At least with the status quo you get to have fun.” As soon as the words are out, I hear their wrongness.
“What? Is that how you think of me? As someone who wants to use you for fun?” He shoots me a weird look; he is disgusted.
“No. No. It’s just … with the status quo, we could coast along, just be normal. Or normalish.” I sigh. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.
“It’s no fun for me knowing that you’re not feeling good,” he says quietly. “We need to change this now that we’re aware of what’s wrong.”
“Right. That makes sense.” It doesn’t really, but Murtuza seems sure.
“And this stopping and starting might be a temporary thing,” he says, recovering, checking his notes. “The idea is that after a while, you eventually stop having a traumatic response to intimacy.”
Seven Page 25
