And so he sat down on the front step.
“Tell Reverend Savage that I will not leave until he comes to his senses,” he instructed the doorman.
Only five minutes earlier, he’d been inside the headmaster’s office. His request had been simple: he wanted to enroll Raushan’s son, Gulamhussein, into the prestigious school.
“But Abdoolally Seth, I’m sure you must be aware, this is a British school.” Reverend Savage had looked over his specs at Abdoolally, appearing perplexed.
“Yes, I am aware.”
“And while I’m sure your grandson is very intelligent —”
“You think he’s not as intelligent as a British student?” Abdoolally had glowered at the headmaster.
“Well, no. This is not about relative intelligence. It’s just that this school is for British students only. It’s our policy.”
“Is it not time for you to change this policy, this anti-Indian policy? Times are changing. India is changing. Do you not want to be seen as a modern school? My grandson will be a fine addition as your first-ever Indian student.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just not possible. If we admit your grandson, then who knows how many other Indians will come forward with the same request?”
“And what would be the problem with that? I noticed that your upper balconies need some maintenance. I’m sure you’d benefit from the fees we Indians will pay.”
“My decision is final.” Reverend Savage had stood, and opened his office door for Abdoolally, who with a sigh, had raised himself up and walked out, his posture erect.
But now, he crossed one leg over the other, and enjoyed the fine January day. He tilted his chin to the sunshine, and closed his eyes. A minute later, the doorman brought him a chair and a cup of steaming chai.
Abdoolally knew he wouldn’t be sitting long. While he’d been a respected member of the community for years, since the war started, he’s been held in particularly high esteem by the local leaders, especially the British, because he held one of the few licences to import paper from Europe during these times of scarcity. In other words, he held the key to a precious resource. If the headmaster didn’t know that already, he would know it soon. Yes, today would be day to change history, a day to do something useful.
Within thirty minutes of his sit-in, the headmaster was at the front door, apologizing and inviting Abdoolally inside.
FIFTY-TWO
When we return to the flat, Murtuza is there waiting. He takes one look at our washed-out complexions and follows me into the bathroom where I brush my teeth and splash cold water on my face.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know, Murti.”
Mom shoos him into the living room and I sit on the bed, numb. Murtuza’s voice sounds terse, but I can’t make out what he’s saying to her. Many minutes pass. She comes into the room, tucks me in, closes the drapes, and then steps away from the bed.
“No, please stay.” My voice is weirdly high-pitched, like Zee’s when she whines.
“You don’t want to sleep?”
“Do you believe me?” She climbs onto the bed and plumps a pillow behind her back. I rest my head on her lap.
“Yes,” she whispers. I open my eyes to the room’s semi-darkness, take a deep breath. I orient myself to the reality that I am forty, in India with my sixty-seven-year-old mother. I have a husband in the next room. I have a daughter who will return in a couple of hours.
“You know, I only remember little bits about my own khatna …” Sorrow dampens her voice.
“Yeah?” I turn my head to look up at her chin.
“Well, everyone in those days had to get it done. It was mandatory for my generation.”
“I read that it happened to nearly everyone in my generation, too. Eighty-five percent or something.”
“With each generation, maybe there will be a fifteen percent decrease. Hopefully more.” But there is no optimism in her tone. Her belly contracts with her heavy exhalation.
“Do you know how it affected you?” I sit up, so that we are shoulder to shoulder now.
“Well, I don’t know, really. But I think … maybe it made things less pleasurable for me, you know, in an intimate way. It’s why I didn’t want them to do it to you.”
“Me, too … it had that impact on me, too.” I lean my shoulder into hers. Her arm is warm, solid.
“Is it very … important? I mean, all the ladies’ magazines would say so, but aren’t there more important things in a marriage?”
I shift my body away from her wrestle with denial. I don’t want to be jostled by it. “Of course there are more important things,” I snap. “But that’s not the point.”
“I suppose I don’t like to think about it.” She switches on the bedside lamp.
We sit in the golden light together, wordless. Perhaps she, too, has no idea how to steer this conversation. It feels like minutes before I break the silence.
“Why?” I force out the question that’s been caged in my throat for weeks. “Why did you trust them?”
“I’m asking myself the same question.” She turns away, swings her legs off the bed and rests her face in her palms. I look at her bent back and regret the accusation in my question.
“I really believed that I could trust them. You know, until you’ve had a child, they treat you like you are one. After I had you, they began to see me as more of an equal. Then we went away to the U.S., and they seemed impressed with me, how I carried myself, how I was my own person.… But then again, they didn’t appreciate all the changes they saw in me. I don’t know. I … I just assumed that they would respect my wishes.” She turns around and faces me. Her eyes are vacant, her cheeks slack.
“But that was stupid. Why would they? My mother and sister always thought they knew what was best for me. I should never have left you alone with them.” Her eyes fill with tears.
I see her in a way I haven’t before, as the younger sister, perhaps the least respected member of the family.
“No. But … you didn’t know, I guess.” My absolution is weak.
“I was naive. I am so very angry with them. I will have to talk to my sister about this. I am going to have it out with her.” Her face is hard now, her tears angry.
“No.” I shake my head.
“I have to give her a piece of my mind —”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’? She has to answer to me.” She points to her chest.
“She has to answer to me. And Fatema. And Zainab. This is a conversation for us to have with her,” I say.
“I’m supposed to see her tomorrow. How will I do that without bringing this up?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to figure it out. We’ve all waited a long time for this. We need to do it our way.” I don’t tell her that I haven’t a clue what that means.
“Listen, there’s something else you need to know, in case she raises it, though I doubt she will.” I share the plan to trick her into giving us information about one of the local cutter-doctors. “Oh my god, Shari! She’s going to find a way to get it done, and then expect you to be grateful to her. She’s going to take Zee herself, so that Murtuza cannot blame you!” Mom’s eyes bug out of her head.
“No, we won’t let that happen.” I shake my head against the possibility.
“You must never, I mean never, leave Zee alone with that woman!”
While I already knew this, its meaning lands, really lands. I cannot trust my favourite Maasi to not harm my child.
“I know, Mom. I know how to protect my own daughter.” A moment after I say it, I realize I was too caustic. But I don’t apologize, don’t want to. I lift back the covers, get out of bed.
When Murtuza brings Zee home, Mom observes, “That’s a big bandage on your knee!”
“Apparently she fell on the street. It’s just a scratch.” Murtuza explains.
“Tasnim Maasi got me the bandage,” Zee reports.
“Zee, did Nafeesa take
you to visit Tasnim Maasi?” I ask her.
“She had to go someplace so Tasnim Maasi took me shopping with her. Then we went back to Nafeesa’s place after.”
“Wait, Nafeesa didn’t tell me that. She left you with Tasnim Maasi?” Murtuza asks Zee.
“Where did the two of you go?” I demand. A wave of nausea returns. I imagine my aunt taking Zee to the hospital, for the fake appointment I pretended to want.
We all stare at Zee for a minute, and her face crinkles into worry.
“We went to buy vegetables and I fell down and then we went to visit her friend and that’s where we got the bandage. Then … we had ice cream and then we saw Nafeesa again,” she sputters, in response to our interrogation.
The mention of ice cream makes my heart pound but I take a long, deep breath, not wanting to scare Zee.
“Which friend did you visit?” I make my voice sweeter, to calm Zee.
“It was a lady who lives close to where I fell down. Tasnim Maasi took me there to wash my knee and put on the bandage.”
“Do you know her name?” Murtuza asks. Zee shakes her head.
While Mom distracts Zee, Murtuza and I head into the bedroom to call Nafeesa, putting her on speaker. At first she denies leaving Zee with her nani, then says she had a class, and when we press her further, she admits that she went to see her boyfriend, and asked Tasnim to take her for an hour.
“Please don’t tell my parents.”
“Nafeesa, you can never ever leave her alone with your nani, do you understand? We can’t trust you if you ever do that.”
“Yes, of course,” she says, alarm in her voice. “But I saw her going shopping. And Zee loves the fruit market. So I thought it would be fine. It was less than an hour. Did something happen?”
“No, it’s probably fine,” Murtuza concedes.
“Promise us, or else we can’t allow you to see our daughter again.” My voice is hard.
“I promise.”
Murtuza hangs up and I collapse on the bed.
“Oh my god. While we’ve been so focused on ourselves, something really awful could have happened.”
“But it didn’t, right? It was just a scrape. Zee seems fine.” Murtuza rubs my back. I catch my breath.
“Wait, I have one more thing I have to ask her.” I go to the living room to find Zee. Murtuza follows me.
“Honey, did you go pee when you came home?”
“Just now she did,” Mom replies.
“Is everything all right down there? Did the pee sting at all? Was there any blood?”
Zee shakes her head, a look of confusion and fear on her face.
“I’m overreacting, aren’t I?” I whisper to Murtuza.
“I think so,” Murtuza agrees.
The next day, most of the family gathers at Zainab’s place. Mom and Maasi greet each other in their usual way, and Maasi is oblivious to the fury rippling under her sister’s semi-pleasant surface. As rehearsed, Murtuza is aloof with Maasi, acting the role of the offended husband, one he performs well. Zainab and I exchange tense and knowing looks. When Fatema arrives, Maasi sniffs and directs a disapproving glare at Zainab, the gathering’s hostess. Zainab’s husband and daughters are there, too, warm and awkward toward Fatema; they don’t socialize often.
I pull Zee close to me, and throughout the lunch, I am the sort of helicopter parent I usually disdain. I notice that Murtuza, too, maintains a vigilant gaze.
I complain about the heat, tell him I’m going out to the terrace. Fatema steps out a minute later. I look over my shoulder, notice Maasi’s glance following her. I point to the sunset. “Let’s pretend we’re admiring the view. She’s watching us.”
“You’re funny,” Fatema teases, and looks east, away from me. “She doesn’t suspect, only thinks I’m a bad influence, as she’s always believed.”
“I hate all this scheming. I’m glad it’s over.”
“I forwarded the email to my group.”
“You removed my info, right? And Maasi’s?”
“Of course.” She points at a building, participating in my pantomine. “You told your mother what happened? She was a bit teary when she said hello to me.”
“Yup. She knows everything. She’s angry with Maasi, guilty she allowed it to happen. I think I’m mad at Mom, too, which I know is messed up.”
“Correct, it’s that royal bitch in there you should be angry with.” She lights a cigarette. I haven’t smoked since eleventh grade, behind the school’s gym, but I take it from her hand, inhale deeply, hold the smoke a moment, and pass it back to her. The tobacco scratches my throat, and I cough. She laughs at me. The nicotine hurries to my brain.
“I hope Zee didn’t see me do that.”
“You were so quick I almost didn’t see you,” Fatema jokes.
“Oh, the breeze is nice out here, isn’t it?” Zainab crosses the terrace to join us.
“Just lovely,” Fatema says, loudly and with too much gaiety. Her levity is infectious and for a moment we pretend we are lunching ladies, enjoying Mumbai’s weather.
“So what happens next? With the doctor?” Zainab asks, breaking the spell.
“We’re going to picket her hospital. Alert the medical association. Call the media. Make it a big deal. Maybe three weeks from now.”
“We should go back inside,” I say, peering over my shoulder.
“Official ending of the SCC meeting.” Fatema stubs out her cigarette and tosses it over the side of the terrace.
While in the shower the next morning, a glimmer of a memory arrives, a tentative visitor.
“Behave well for us,” Mom whispered, tears in her eyes, the day she and Dad left for the airport. They’d used up their long-saved-for three-week holiday. I still had a month of school vacation.
Six months earlier, they’d asked me if I wanted to stay the extra month, and of course I was excited, thinking only about mornings with Nani and nightly slumber parties with my cousins. The reality of my parents’ absence only dawned on me when their four suitcases and two carry-ons queued in the front hallway.
“I will,” I said solemnly, my eyes becoming wet, too. I didn’t want to cry. After all, I was a big girl. I was brave, and was going to travel home all by myself.
On the trip from New York to India, they’d prepared me; our journey was one long lesson in international travel. They pointed out all the things they believed I’d need to understand for the way back: the conveyor belt on which I placed my duffle bag for inspection, the uniformed guards, the meanings of airport signage: male and female figures that depicted bathrooms, the knife and fork that meant food, the capped man who was a customs officer. They described the plastic envelope I’d wear around my neck with my identification and boarding passes. Mom had even demonstrated how to use the soap dispensers in the airplane, which were different from those at school.
“Listen to your nani and nana, all your uncles and aunties,” my father joined in. “They are your parents for the next month.” Did his voice crack when he said that? Was it difficult for him to leave me behind?
“I know, Dad.” Did I roll my eyes the way Zee does when she thinks I’m getting too emotional?
I shut off the water and wrap a towel around me, then grab a pen and my notebook, jotting down the unspooling memory.
I didn’t miss my parents for the first while. Mornings — when Zainab and Fatema were at school — were boring and I awaited, with anticipation, their return at two o’clock. Later in the month was different. A curtain of misery pulled down over me. Homesickness settled in my belly, in almost daily bouts of diarrhea that Maasi blamed on the servant, who once let me drink from the regular water bottle instead of the special boiled one. I wanted to cry but waited until the lights were turned off at night. Fatema or Zainab heard me in the dark and tattled. I asked for my mother every day, and at some point, my nani admonished me to stop, that I was ruining my final week of vacation with such foolishness. Ashamed, I complied. I was a good girl.
Now I kn
ow that khatna made me a homesick girl, made me cry for my mother, made me want to go home.
While I had already begun to assimilate into an American child in the three years prior, khatna reinforced this unconscious, destabilizing process.
Khatna warned me that India was a place from which to flee.
I pause. No, that’s not quite right, for khatna happens in Australia and the U.S. and every country where Bohras call home.
Khatna warns girls that no place is safe.
I continue writing.
Finally, it was time to leave. At the door, with my suitcase, my cousins cried, but I didn’t. They promised to send me letters once a week and I reciprocated the promise. But my heart was no longer in it.
I rub the cool skin over my heart.
When I boarded the plane, the Indian flight attendant in charge of me cooed about how cute and pretty I was. She reminded me of perfumed and lipsticked Fareeda Kaaki. She brought me a plastic bag with the airline’s pin, crayons, a colouring book and teddy bear, the same things I’d been gifted on the London to Bombay leg. I considered asking about the promised extra toys and chocolate, but felt shy to press the call button, even though Pretty Kaaki-Stewardess said I could. Trays of food arrived and were cleared away.
At Heathrow, a young white woman took me by the elbow, all business, and deposited me in a room with a dozen other children. Every so often an adult would enter the room to deposit a child or two. Then another adult would enter to make a withdrawal. I knew the removed children were catching flights, but still, it was discomfiting when they left.
It was a sterile lounge, fashioned into a daycare by adults legally responsible for children. There were busted toys on the floor, one of them the same lock-block garage I had at home, except missing all the little cars. There were metal benches, white walls. I recall a faint sour odour; perhaps someone had puked days earlier and they hadn’t been able to get it out of the industrial carpet.
I reflexively cover my nose to block the illusory smell of vomit.
Some of the kids played with the sad toys. One girl, about my age, cried in the corner, and a uniformed lady attempted a shushing. When the lady returned to her position behind her desk, I went over. Her name was May. I remember because I asked, “Like the month?” and she nodded. Or maybe it was April, or June, I don’t know. She was en route to Vancouver and pointed to the large wall clock and told me she had only a couple of hours before her flight. I realized then that no one had told me how long I had to wait. I wasn’t sure if I should ask the woman behind the desk; she resembled Mrs. Cook, my first-grade teacher who, every day, at two o’clock, lined up half the classroom for over an over-the-knee spank.
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