My cell dings a minute later, indicating a waiting text message.
We have a problem with the email. Can you call me?
I check the time. Murtuza, Mom, and Zee ventured out ten minutes ago, their mission to buy mangos for tonight’s dessert. The fruit stall is only a few blocks away and they’ll be back soon, my solitude’s brevity a comfort.
I open the list of recent calls, tap Fatema’s name. It rings just once.
“Sorry, I was in the bathroom when you called.”
“No problem. All fine on your end?” I sense she doesn’t want an answer, would prefer to rush forward to her problem. I have an urge to dally.
“It’s hard to believe we just have another two weeks left here. The time has passed so quickly. I’ve grown accustomed to life in Mumbai. It’s going to be strange to return to New York.” This would have been true last month, but no longer. I’ve begun to pack, am counting down the days.
She edges into my meandering. “Sure, right. Listen, there’s something I need to tell you. I sent the email, with all the identifying information removed, to one of my contacts at The Post. He says his editor can’t use it.”
“Why not?” I ask dully. I barely care.
“He says that without the full source details — meaning the ‘to’ and ‘from’ information — he can’t verify that it’s real. He can’t use it in a story.”
“Well, then, he can just write about the doctor, right?”
“He says he can’t say that a source verified her as a cutter unless he has the source’s name. He says he can keep the source anonymous in the newspaper story, but he himself has to know who the source is.”
“Which means?” Her repetition of the word source irritates me.
“I have to tell him it was an email between you and Maasi. But, listen, Shari —”
“No way.”
“I trust this guy. He’s an experienced journo. He just has to see your names. But he won’t reveal your names. Won’t print them.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
“Well, that’s fine. He’ll still cover the demonstration, but he won’t be able to say he has a source that verifies the information. He said the very best-case scenario is if you make the appointment, and audio-record the interaction with her.”
“That’s crazy! No! I won’t do that.”
“I know, Shari, don’t worry. We will try to find someone else who will do that with her or another cutter. I know that the email itself was a lot to ask.” Her tone is sincere, but why do I feel like she is working up to sell me something?
“Yes, yes, it was. It’s all I can do.”
“So, let’s not waste your efforts. Let him see the original email, with his assurance that he won’t reveal your names.” There it is. She presented me with the much scarier option to make this one seem simple. I discern the manipulation, so why do I feel swayed?
“And you’re sure you can trust this guy?” I rub my temples.
“Yeah, he’s interviewed members of our group and has always used pseudonyms when asked. He’s decent.”
I listen to her breathing for a moment, prolong her waiting.
“All right, Fatema. I hope you’re right.”
We hang up and the flat feels like April in New York, cool, damp, dull. I turn off the air conditioning and open the sliding glass doors, allowing a hot wind to blow in. I stare down five storeys at the road below, people and cars in miniature, scurrying busyness. The outdoor thermometer reads thirty-six degrees centigrade, and gradually, my chilled skin begins to roast in the blistering sunshine. I picture Fatema’s journalist friend. Why didn’t I ask his name? After all, he’ll have mine. One more person will know that I’ve been subjected to this practice. And one more person will guess that Maasi is implicated, and will judge her. He will know our names without ever having met us, without knowing who we are as people.
Without knowing that there is love between me and her, between niece and aunt, victim and —
What’s the correct word?
I can change my mind. I can say no.
I rush back inside, pulling the glass door roughly, and it bounces as it closes. I pull the latch. Just as I’m about to phone Fatema, Zee bursts into the flat, wearing green, red, and purple, a multi-hued flag waving in my direction. She holds a mango up to my nose, demanding I smell it: ripe, sweet, alive. Mom and Murtuza saunter in behind. I leave behind my phone, and we cut open the fruit, and its orange flesh forms a slippery pile on a plate we place in the fridge for later. On the balcony, we each suck on a goatla, the hairy stone, cleaning them with our teeth and tongues, mango juice dripping off our hands and chins.
Murtuza is completing his teaching and marking duties and Zee is technically ahead of her schoolmates’ lesson plan, although we’ll have to see how she fares when she returns to the classroom. While I didn’t cheat on the reading, writing, and arithmetic, all other subjects involved impromptu trips, talks with family members, and tangential online searches. More than once, I’ve needed to remind myself that it’s only second grade, and we’ve probably done all right.
And me? I’ve almost finished editing the Abdoolally blog. I uploaded all the documents I copied from the trust, as well as everything that Meena found. I wrote a factual description of his life, including what I know about his wives and a few of his children. I documented my interviews with Mumbai family and the trips to Dholka and Ahmedabad. It’s all very neutral. The “great man” story remains.
But there is still one piece I haven’t written: my own impressions and questions about who he really was. I’m mulling that over. I still need to meet with Banu Aunty, and see if she has anything to add. I’m hoping for a little more description about Shaheeda, and perhaps Rumana, too.
As the work recedes, we’ve been shifting from being almost-Indians to foreigners on vacation. It’s like changing our wardrobe; all this time we’ve been donning false but familiar garments, ones that smell and look Indian, and it’s time to fold and store them away, and wear our usual outfits in preparation for the journey home. I find myself opening my eyes wide like I did the first week here: I notice the jostle of a city bus, study the slumped postures of office women on their way home from work. I’m curious about their husbands and children. When I am caught looking, I know my gaze is too open, that I give myself away as a foreigner.
“We still have two bottles of red left,” Murtuza says, passing me a glass. Both Zee and Mom have gone to bed early after a hot afternoon tromping around the Kanheri Caves.
“Can’t take them home, right?” I clink my glass to his.
“Just over a week left. I’m surprised to say I’m a little sad to leave. I thought I’d be tired of India by now, in a rush to go back. I know you’re ready to go.”
“The suitcases are mostly packed,” I say.
“I get it. This trip has mostly been professional for me, with personal on the side. For you it’s all been personal, even the historical research. It’s a lot to deal with.” He stretches his arm across the back of the couch to pull me close.
“Not what I imagined. But it’s all good, right? Growth?” I raise my glass in false cheer.
“To growth.” Glass strikes glass. We sip in silence. He nuzzles the side of my head, and I relax into his touch. Then I realize it’s Saturday night. I wait for it.
“I was thinking. Would you like to try out the stuff in that article I sent you?”
“What article?” Of course I know what he’s talking about, but I’m buying myself time, otherwise my answer would be a flat-out “no.” Honestly, until he just reminded me, I’d half-forgotten about it.
“The one you read just before your mom arrived? That sex one? Where we pause as we go? You pay attention to when you are uncomfortable?” He continues listing descriptors until I admit that I recognize the article in question.
“Oh, Murti, that sounds like a lot of work.” I pull away from him, realize the movement is too abrupt, adjust so I’m not so far away.
“All right.” I sigh. The article did make sense to me, I just hadn’t planned to talk about it, or act on it, so soon.
“Don’t look so glum about getting naked with me.” His face falls for a millisecond, but then he dons a goofy smile.
“No, no. It’s not about you. It’s … about me. Dealing with all this.”
“I know, I know. But remember you get to stop it at any point, right? It might be five minutes if that’s all you can handle. Just five minutes.” Once again, his expression is bright, but I bristle. I don’t like the insinuation that I might not be able to handle this.
“We’ll try it for ten minutes.” I rise from the couch, remove my clothes in the bedroom, and briskly shower. I’m about to choose my black cotton nightie but remember the lacy teddy Murtuza surprised me with on his birthday. It dawns on me that it’s been weeks since we had sex, right after I found out about the khatna. How many Saturdays have passed? Four? No, five. I slip on the lingerie and feel its silky slide down the length of my back. If we’re going to do this work, I think, we might as well do it right.
He looks at me tentatively, and says, “Ready?” I hunch my shoulders when he places his hands on them and says, “Just relax, it’ll be okay.” I feel the press of his palm and the resistance in my muscles. A soft fog drifts across my brain.
“It’s happening already.” My voice is a silverfish, ready to disappear with a metallic flash.
“Oh. We should pause, then.”
I say nothing.
“The article said to pause, breathe, acknowledge what’s happening, and wait until your body says go again.”
I pause. I breathe. “But why did it happen so fast?” I whine. I am too fully aware of how damaged I am. It was better before, better not to know.
“Breathe.” He inhales and I mimic him. After a few breaths, I nod to him.
“I think I know what happened, maybe. You asked me if I was ready. You always say that. I hate that. Ready? Like we’re going for a bloody hike or something.” There is a vehemence in my voice I don’t expect. I want to punish my husband for this single, innocuous word.
“Okay. So that word bothered you.”
“It made me tense. And then you tried to massage my shoulders and that made it worse.”
“Wow,” he says, pulling away, looking thoughtful. “Do I always do that? Maybe I notice you being nervous and then don’t know why, and then I think I can help relax you. But that’s perhaps been the incorrect thing.” He is steady, intellectual, which only makes things worse.
“What does your fucking article say we should do now?” I spit. He darts me a scared look. We are both already in over our heads and we haven’t even started.
“Let’s breathe again, okay? Just pause and process this?” He takes my hand, and after cursing at him (“All this fucking breathing!”) I allow myself to feel his warm fingers. After a minute of inhalations and exhalations, I am less pissed off.
Another realization: he didn’t ask me if I was ready when he blindfolded me. When he was rough and in charge, it wasn’t like this, not until the end, when he resumed gentleness.
Which just feels fucked up.
I tell him this, and he nods excitedly, ideas popping with each head bob.
“Yes, that must be it! Something about the gentle approach feels scary to you.” He looks at me like we are scientists who have just stumbled upon a major discovery. I go with it. My anger has petered out, and his statement is an opening through which I can place one foot.
“Untrustworthy. Something about the gentle approach feels like I can’t trust you. Isn’t that insane? I’m insane.”
“What feels untrustworthy?”
I breathe for another minute, at his prodding, and then it comes to me.
“It’s sort of like I have to watch out, to be on alert, and wait for things to go badly.” The lock box on the towering shelf unlatches, snaps open, and spills words. And then shuts again. I stare up at the ceiling, waiting for more to fall.
“Huh. Gentle means ‘be vigilant.’” He looks stumped now. I know he’s itching to do an article search on this, is listing keywords in his mind. But I don’t want to talk anymore. I’ll need to juggle these new ideas on my own, toss them high, catch them, drop them. By myself.
My body says “go” and I get out of bed, double-check that the door is locked. I grab the pleather case, and throw it to him. He lifts his right arm, catches it, his reflexes catlike.
Just as the time before, I am titillated and amused by Murtuza’s play at dominance. Turned on. One who is quick to assimilate new information, he incorporates the sex-therapy article’s ideas, ordering me to check in with him, to pause, to practise our safe word. I comply, calling it a few times when I don’t need to, or at least when I don’t think it’s needed, just because he’s told me to.
But then I do it on my own, without his prodding. Yellow and red let me pause, catch up to myself. We wait.
We wait until I say green. We wait until I am here, and nowhere else. The frickin’ therapy article was right. Could it be right?
I listen for his breathing and know he is watching me carefully. How does he feel about me being in charge? I randomly call “green” and within a minute, “red,” just to see what will happen.
“Good girl,” he says each time. Then he uncuffs my hands, but leaves the blindfold on. I say “green.”
When he enters me, he growls in my ear, “Use your safe word.”
“Red.” I feel him slip out, realize this sensation is new. We have never parked in the middle of this road before. I feel my vulva tingle, wanting. I say, “Green.” In total, we repeat this process five more times. I know, because I’m counting. Twice it occurs to me that I’ve spaced out a little bit, my mind travelling to sounds outside our flat, or to random thoughts about laundry, the contents of my suitcase. I only realize it when Murtuza barks, “Safe word.” These times I’ve gone away without knowing, the safe word not even an option. I wonder, Why did I leave? Is it normal to leave? Doesn’t everyone get distracted?
After the fifth pause, my body shifts into a more relaxed place. It reminds me of that time when, years ago, in university, I took a toke of a passing joint at a party, my mind lifting, my body going light yet remaining solid. Remaining there.
I tilt my pelvis, meet his. Our bodies rock together in a synchronized rhythm. All I can feel is that single part of me, as though a hot spotlight has focused there, leaving the rest in darkness. I push against him harder.
“Tell me what you want,” he says in his stern Mr. Tyebji voice.
“More,” I gasp, the word surprising me. He pulls out. I want to kill him. But then, then his fingers — how many? — are inside me, pressing, groping. He’s never done this before. I’ve never allowed him.
“Do you need your safe word?”
“Green, green, green!” I yell.
And then, and then, it happens. My body releases, gushes, jolts into alertness. I careen down a toboggan hill, faster, faster, faster, losing control, about to crash, and then my sleigh transforms into a tube and I am inside a waterslide, warm, and land with a splash. I open my eyes, and I am still underwater. It’s not what I expected. Not how it’s described in books. It’s anticlimactic, even if it’s a climax. It’s not magical, but more like years of tension disappeared, like my body has just said, Stop it, stop worrying about this thing you’ve been worrying about, stop it now.
Well, perhaps that is climactic.
Limp, I pull the blindfold off, and clutch him to me.
Twenty minutes later, we are under our blanket, flat on our backs. Murtuza wants to debrief, but I say, “Red. We’ll theorize tomorrow, Murti.”
“But that was … very special. I’m so curious about why that worked, and … so fast. The article said that the pausing technique could
take quite some time. That we would need many months of healing.”
“Red. Red. Red. Screw the healing,” I pause so he’ll hear my unintended pun. “Yes, it was special, but can we just let it be for now? I don’t want to overthink.” I do suspect that this will take many months, that this was odd beginner’s luck, that it won’t happen again so easily. But I don’t want to ruin the moment.
“Okay, okay.” He nods, then turns on his side to face me.
“So, your first time?”
“Yes.”
“Ever? Like not even with …” We lay there for a moment, tension skipping through his silence.
“With …?” After a second, I grasp that he’s asking about Ian. “Oh. No. Never. Not with anyone. Just you. Only you.”
“Okay …” He smiles, closes his eyes, his long-awaited question answered. One I didn’t know he’d been waiting to ask. How could he have imagined it happening with Ian? I study his placid face, glad his mind has settled.
I listen to his breathing grow more rhythmic. In the quiet, my mind clicks though multiple thoughts at once. I turn to him.
“Hey, are you asleep?” He rouses, shakes his head no, his stubbly chin scraping my shoulder. “I was thinking. Do you want to go to the demonstration the day after tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I do.” He shifts away to look at me. “But I thought you didn’t?”
“Well, I’m not going to wave any placards or anything. But I want to go, at least to see what it’s like. I’ll just be a bystander.”
“Should we take Zee or ask your mom or Zainab to mind her?”
“They’ll want to go, too. We’ll take her along. Hey! Maybe it’ll fit into a health lesson.”
“Haha.”
“I just think maybe I’ll want to be there. Fatema told me it’s the first time anyone has held a protest like this. At a cutter’s office,” I say, my throat going dry.
Seven Page 29
