“Yeah, I’m game.” He sounds groggy. I shift onto my right side so that he can curl around me. He drops off first, but it’s not long before I follow him.
FIFTY-SIX
When I look up directions for Banu Aunty’s Santacruz flat the next morning, I realize it’s only a twenty-minute walk from Fortune Enclave. So close, and yet none of my relatives knew to direct me to her. From the outside, it’s a once grand and now flagging mansion with spacious balconies. The staircase up to the third floor has Spanish tiles in blue and green hues, matching the transoms’ Victorian stained glass. She greets me at her door, wearing a floral-patterned shalvaar kameez and pink plastic flip-flops. Her hair is completely white and when she smiles, her eyes sparkle a shade of topaz. I stare, perhaps a little too long, at her striking face. No one has described Shaheeda’s appearance, but now I imagine I am seeing her beauty passed down four generations. I haven’t seen these eyes in anyone else in our family.
Banu leads me into a grand, antique-furniture-filled formal drawing room. She mentions that her brothers’ families take up the first and second floors and that she raised her three children here, one of whom lives in Delhi, and the other two in Canada.
“The place is much too big for me now, but I don’t feel lonely with all the nieces and nephews and their kids coming and going all the time.”
A servant brings tea, and then she looks at me expectantly.
“My research is mostly about Abdoolally, but few people know much about his wives, and I’ve heard very little about Shaheeda, your great-grandmother.” I tell her what I know of Rumana’s migration to Dholka after Abdoolally and Zehra’s divorce.
“Well, as you know, my daadi — Rumana — her mother died when she was young, so she didn’t get to know her. She was close to her second mother, Zehrabai. She didn’t keep close ties with her father’s side of the family so I don’t have much personal information about Abdoolally.” She taps her forehead as though to trigger her memory. I ready my pen, waiting to hear about his wives.
“What can you tell me about Zehra?” I prod.
“I met her many times, on special occasions at my daadi’s house. She died in the sixties, I think, when I was in my early twenties. My daadi doted on Zehrabai the way a daughter would. I recall she was a strong woman. She always asked me how I was doing in school, encouraged me to study.” She goes on to tell me that she is a retired accountant.
“I’m curious about why Abdoolally and she divorced.”
“Oh, I know that story. My daadi told me everything about that. For one thing, they had a very big age gap, and he was always working. This would not have been an issue for most women, but Zehrabai, educated and modern by that era’s standards, was not happy to be left alone all the time, so there was a great deal of tension between them.”
“Interesting.”
“And there was more, the straw that broke the camel’s back, as they say.” She gazes at me, as though reading my face. Then she appraises my polka-dotted sundress in a way that makes me squirm.
“More?” I cross my right leg over my left.
“Are you aware of the current controversy about khatna?”
“Of course.” I hold my breath.
“What do you think of it?” The amber in her eyes grows duller, darker. Do I tell her the truth or aim for something neutral? What if our opinions differ and she doesn’t want to tell me more about Zehra and Rumana?
“Honestly? I think it’s a terrible, outdated practice,” I say, exhaling.
“I agree,” she says. “As did Zehrabai.”
“Go on. Please.”
“Apparently Zehrabai had a very bad experience herself, and so when it was time to take my daadi for it, she bribed the khatna lady to not make the cut, but to falsely confirm that it was done. The lady agreed, took the bribe, but then went to the Syedna’s wife and told her the whole story, perhaps hoping to gain something — business or status, I don’t know. The Syedna’s wife spread the word about it — the community was still very small then — and eventually it got back to Abdoolally, who by then was very embarrassed by his wife stepping out of line.”
“Oh my gosh.” I’ve stopped taking notes now, struggling to absorb her story.
“My daadi said it was not good for him or his business to be seen to be lax with his wife on this. Like today, but maybe even more so, people were very much in one another’s business, personal and work. So he divorced her.”
“They divorced because Zehra faked Rumana’s khatna,” I murmur, letting this information sink in.
“Yes. That and they fought constantly, too.”
“And why did Rumana get sent to her grandmother in Dholka?”
“I believe this was meant to be temporary. But my daadi had asthma — pretty bad, as I recall, so this might have been a reason. Dholka still had clean air back then. Shame that the air quality has declined. Just like everywhere else in India.” She shakes her head.
“And then Zehra moved to Dholka after the divorce, so they stayed in touch. Do you know how that happened? Why she remarried someone in Dholka?”
“I don’t know. Oh! But I can tell you that she and her husband Dawood were good together. He died when I was a teenager, but they seemed very happy as an old couple.”
“So … did Rumana end up having the khatna done?”
“Oh, yes, she was taken back to that same lady who had taken Zehrabai’s bribe and it was done.” She claps her hands twice, as though shaking away crumbs.
“That’s too bad.” My stomach drops. Zehra lost her battle. I ask Banu to pause so that I can record her words.
“But the story doesn’t end there.” She waits for me to stop scribbling and then continues, her voice mischievous. “When my daadi — Rumana — heard the full story of what happened, she was just married. My daada — her husband — was a very good man, very sensitive, very respectful of women. He made sure that my father and my aunts were well educated.”
“And?” I say, sensing a digression.
“So they knew the local cutter in Ahmedabad, where they lived at the time. Ummul was a friend of my daada’s family, probably a distant relative, too. One day, she got very ill, and needed surgery for something, but she was a poor woman and a widow. My daadi and daada paid her hospital bills and even took her into their home for her convalescence. She was so grateful to them, and especially to my daadi, who cared for her, that she asked how she could repay the kindness. My daadi told her that she wanted her to stop doing khatna.”
“Rumana asked her to stop doing khatna?” I capture the words in my notebook.
“Yes. Now this lady Ummul said she couldn’t do that, because how was she going to make a living? Doing khatna supplemented her family’s income. So daadi had a better idea. She asked her to be the person people could go to if they wanted to have a false khatna, the kind Zehra had tried for her. She asked Ummul to promise to do pretend khatnas for anyone who asked for a “special khatna.” My daadi secretly sent her a good number of women who wanted to have this done and paid her a supplement each time she did one.”
“How many do you think wanted this?”
“Well, at least one in ten of the khatnas she did was this ‘special khatna.’ And she probably did fifty, sixty khatnas in total each year. And she had a nurse train her on how to sterilize her implements so that the real khatnas she did were at least safer.”
“Wow, that’s impressive.”
Banu meets my gaze and cocks her head. “You really think so?”
“Yes, I’m really glad to hear of this underground resistance. Do you know if there are many cutters today doing pretend khatnas?” And then, following a hunch, I add, “My cousin, Fatema, is one of the lead organizers trying to change the laws here.”
“That’s your first cousin?” I nod and then explain our relationship through Abdoolally’s fourth wife. I list names of all the relatives in common.
“Sorry, I don’t know those people. I’ve heard some of their names
and maybe met a couple of them, but as I said, my daadi didn’t mix much with the Rangwala side.”
“It’s a large family,” I admit.
“Okay, then, before I go on, you must promise to keep this to yourself. You can’t even share it with that cousin of yours.”
“Wait, can I share what you’ve told me so far?”
“You can write about Zehra and how she tried to stop khatna for Rumana. And you can say that Rumana didn’t allow it for the girls in her family. That’s all. You must not say anything about Ummul, or else you could cause trouble.”
“I promise,” I whisper, placing a hand over my heart.
“Well, Ummul made her daughter her apprentice. Her name was Bilkis. Now Bilkis continued her mother’s ‘special khatna’ practice, out of respect and loyalty for my daadi. And her daughter, Saleha, has done the same thing. I pay her salary. She lives in Bandra, close to here.”
“How does no one find out? Don’t the kids end up talking about how their khatna didn’t have pain or bleeding?”
“She tells everyone that she uses a numbing ointment that stops the pain and bleeding.” She laughs. “Petroleum jelly.”
“Petroleum jelly? No one sees though the deception?”
“No. Saleha smears the genitals with a tissue coated in the jelly. Then she mimes the act with a scalpel, a sleight of hand, and tells the girls to close their eyes. She pinches them near the area. So if the girls are asked, they will say something happened to them. But there is almost no pain, no bleeding, no khatna!” Her face splits open into a devilish grin. I laugh again.
“Now, if people ask her to do a real khatna, then Saleha has to make a light nick.” I cringe at this description, knowing there is no such thing. Banu continues, “But not on the clitoral hood, where it’s supposed to be, but above, on the labia, in order to avoid any damage to the clitoris. There’s very little bleeding.”
“Really?”
“This is part of the problem, you know. The true cutters say they are cutting the hood, that it’s harmless, but all the tissue there is just too delicate and small on a seven-year-old. Imagine how small! They end up doing damage, even if they intend not to. Same thing with the doctors.”
My clitoris burns with her graphic description. At the same time, a part of me is embarrassed to be having a conversation about genital anatomy with this older aunty. But mostly I’m in awe of Ummul’s and Bilkis’s and Saleha’s subterfuge.
“I can’t believe no one has caught on.” I shake my head.
“Saleha is very busy through word-of-mouth referrals. She is getting older, so I’ve got to talk to her about getting an apprentice. She doesn’t have any daughters to pass all this down to.”
“This is brilliant. Did you know there is a protest happening tomorrow, a protest against a doctor who does cutting? Would you like to join us?”
“Oh no. That’s not for me. I have to make my contribution in my own way.” She winks at me.
“Fair enough.”
“And remember, you can’t tell anyone, and I mean anyone, what I’ve said.” I make my promise a second time. In the taxi home, I write in my notebook: I found Zehra. I found Rumana.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Bombay, 1920
I, ABDOOLALLY AHMEDALLY KUTBUDDIN RANGWALA, Bombay, Dawoodi Bohra Shia Mahomedan Inhabitant DECLARE this to be a FOURTH CODICOL to my last WILL which WILL bears the date the 30th day of April 1920.
2. WHEREAS by Clause 6 of my said WILL, I HAVE DIRECTED that my Executor Mr. Mirza Mohamed Khan shall have the power to sell my property situated at Ghogha Street, and shall invest the net sale proceeds to establish and maintain a maternity hospital in my native village of DHOLKA and after his death such person or persons as may be the Trustee or Trustees of my said WILL shall have the power to maintain the hospital buildings and services as they see fit, as are authorized by Section 20 of the INDIAN TRUSTS ACT, 1882.
IN WITNESS WHERE, I have hereunto set my hand this 24th day of October 1920.
SIGNED by the above named
ABDOOLALLY AHMEDALLY KUTBUDDIN RANGWALA
as a FOURTH CODICIL to his last WILL dated the 30th day of April 1920 in the joint presence of myself and us who at his request and in such joint presence
KUTBUDDIN DHOLKAWALLA
have hereunto subscribed our names as witness.…
Sd. JEHANGIR ALAMJI KHAN, Solicitor, Bombay.
Sd. ALI MOHAMED NASHIRWANJI
FIFTY-EIGHT
We arrive at our designated meeting spot, a Charni Road coffee shop three minutes away from the Shifa Hospital. Fatema introduces us to four of her friends, but the names gallop by before I can catch a single one. One of Fatema’s comrades, a young woman who appears to be in her twenties, explains that we will be gathering at the steps of the hospital with our placards.
“Try to make lots of noise. The press will be there.” She surveys our sparse group. “After that, Aleesha will begin speaking.” She gestures with her thumb to one of the women we first met, the only one amongst us wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Fatema had instructed us to “look Bohra,” which is funny because Bohras wear all styles of attire, but we comply and Mom and I don our ridas for the occasion, and Murtuza wears a kurta and topi. Zee, wanting to be included in our dressup, wears a shalvaar kameez. Before leaving the house, we modelled our outfits for one another, Murtuza joking that this is the best use of his religious garb, clothing that hasn’t left the closet since our arrival in Mumbai. Me, I like the feeling of protection the rida offers; only my face can be seen, and I plan to wear sunglasses when the media’s cameras roll.
“Before and after the speakers, we will picket outside, as long as we can stay, and hand out leaflets,” the younger woman continues, holding up a piece of paper folded in half. The cover reads, STOP KHATNA!
“We are not going inside?” Murtuza asks.
“No. They have security. And once they see us, they will barricade the door.”
“What is a picket?” Zee asks.
“It’s a kind of show. We’re trying to educate people,” Murtuza says, and Zee nods.
A few minutes later, a dozen more women and three men gather, and once again there are quick-quick introductions. The young woman repeats her instructions. More questions are asked and then a brief hush falls over the newest arrivals. How many of them have attended a protest before? What brought that aunty here? That uncle? That orthodox-looking young couple? I assume most of us are Bohra from the familiar names. And that all the women have been cut.
Zainab arrives with Nafeesa. “Wah! Look at you, Murtuza! So handsome!”
“Thank you.” He feigns bashfulness and tips his topi in her direction.
“And you!” She points at me. “When did you buy this rida? In 1999?” Her rida is of the newest style with fine beadwork around the collar. Mine is a simple white poly-blend with a faint rippling of pink through it.
“That’s a pretty close guess.” Mom smirks. “I must have bought this for you a decade or more ago. Yet it still looks new, barely worn.”
“Yeah, yeah. Maybe you can give me one of your stylish hand-me-downs,” I say to Zainab.
“Gladly!” Zainab says, and asks Nafeesa to take a photo of Mom, me, and her.
I pull Nafeesa aside and remind her that Zee is her responsibility today, and that she must take Zee for a walk the moment I give her my signal.
“Don’t let her out of your sight, understand?” I use my most aunty-ish voice. “No going off to see boyfriends and leaving her!”
“Yes, Maasi. I’m so sorry for last time.” She blushes red and I regret being so heavy-handed. She goes to collect Zee, who is distracted by Nafeesa’s latest manicure — red and blue alternating nails. All Zee knows is that we are here to protest a bad doctor, and that’s all I want her to know.
Fatema touches my elbow. The group has begun to trickle out of the coffee shop.
“So glad you all came. It means a lot.”
“To me, too,” I say. “So, is all oka
y with your journalist friend?”
“Yes, he assured me. He’ll say that he has a verified source. That’s all. Adnand should be here soon.”
“Good.” Sweat prickles where my rida’s hood meets my neck. I undo the drawstring and reach my hand back to wipe the damp away.
On the footpath, our group, now about twenty strong, merges into the flow of pedestrians before reconstituting in front of the hospital. Fatema’s driver, Varun, is waiting in the car for us. When he spies us, he pops the trunk and unloads a pile of placards. Murtuza takes one that reads: FGM IS GENDER VIOLENCE! On the reverse it shouts: STOP KHATNA! STOP DR. RUBINA MASTER! Neither Zainab nor I take cardboard signs, but Mom accepts a stack of handbills to distribute to passersby. Most of the group has already begun to walk a picket circle, shouting the slogans written on the signs. Two security guards stand at the doors of the building, looking bewildered. They have lathis — police sticks — but I don’t see guns. Still, I catch Nafeesa’s eye, gesture for her to leave. She nods, bends down, whispers something in Zee’s ear, and points in my direction. Zee scans for Murtuza and me, then she smiles and waves. I watch them walk away.
“Murti, I’m going to stand over there.” I point to a spindly copper pod tree that offers shade.
“Sure, Shari. Just text if we get separated?” He hugs me and I nod into his shoulder. He joins the picket circle behind Fatema. Dozens of curious pedestrians stop to observe the show, and, after a time, it’s difficult to separate them from the protestors. Mom stands a few feet away, chatting and passing out flyers. Where is Zainab?
The tree provides relief from the sun and the melee. I remember Banu’s words, which I shared with Murtuza last night after swearing him to secrecy — I had to spill the amazing story to someone. Zehra’s and Rumana’s — and now Banu Aunty’s — strategy is the opposite of this protest. I have to wonder just how many mothers and grandmothers have been complicit in the underground movement to stop khatna.
A few moments later, Zainab joins me. I expect her to provide comic commentary about the crowd, to make a joke of the gawkers, but she is solemn. I mouth the words, shu tayuu? What’s going on?
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