“Maasi told me we were going to the market and then we’d go and get ice cream. I remember feeling excited about that.” I pause, take another sip of water, the reel playing in my mind: we were supposed to buy vegetables, but we didn’t. I remember thinking that the aborted errand was somehow my fault.
“She seemed to be in a rush, and while we were walking, I tripped and skinned my knee.” She scolded me for being clumsy, and her unexpected harshness shocked me. Perhaps she saw it in my expression because she softened then.
“She said, ‘Don’t worry, I know a nurse who lives close by, and I’ll phone her and she can take care of your knee.’ Soon after, we arrived at this so-called nurse’s place.”
A century of dust coated the foyer. The lift was that old-timey kind, with a criss-crossing metal grate that protested with a creak and a sigh when Maasi pulled it closed. I liked watching the cement underside of each floor pass as we ascended.
“An older woman answered the door, and Maasi whispered something to her in Gujarati that I couldn’t understand.”
The air was stuffy with kerosene. I take a breath and continue.
“I was told to lie down. Maasi said, ‘We’ll clean your knee and put on a bandage.’ Then she told me to pull off my shorts so she could check that there weren’t any other injuries. I resisted that, told her it was only my knee, but she shushed me. I didn’t stop her when she pulled down both my shorts and underwear. A part of me wondered if she knew better, and so I complied.”
Later, I’d blame myself for letting her remove my clothing. Mom told me to never let anyone touch me down there.
“Remember, this was a decade ago; I was only seven.” An old man in the front row nods earnestly at me. He resembles one of my great-uncles with his long white beard and topi.
“She said the antiseptic might sting for a second, and told me to look out the window so that it would hurt less. I did, and so I didn’t see what actually happened.”
The sky was smoggy grey. My knee sizzled. At the same time, I felt sharp fingers and a much stronger, searing pain.
“I believe Maasi tended my knee while the other woman cut my clitoral hood, and while I felt pain in both places, I was confused about what was hurting where. And why.” My knee and vulva prickle for a second and I shift from one leg to the other. The old woman’s fingers were thick at the joints, her nails stained turmeric-yellow.
“Maasi said, ‘Look, you are fine now, nothing happened.’ The nurse applied a cream and then they dressed me again. Maasi said, ‘You’ll feel better in a minute and forget all about this.’ I wanted to believe her, and so I did. At least for a while.
“All the way to the ice cream shop, Maasi instructed me to never tell my parents about visiting the nurse, that it was our secret. I thought that I was in trouble for something I couldn’t name.
“The pain subsided. When we returned to her place, I must have been in shock. I didn’t argue when she undressed me, washed my underwear, and then put them back on me, damp.”
She told me, “Chee chee, you’ve dirtied your panties. But that’s good, the bleeding stopped.” I was supposed to read out this last line, but something about it feels too crude to say aloud to a roomful of strangers.
“And so, in that child’s haze of confusion caused by the manipulation of a trusted elder, I kept the secret. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later, when we were back in New York, and looking at our digital photo album, that I asked about the protest and what it was all about.” I turn to look up at the projected image of my parents at the rally.
“And that was when I told them what happened. When I was a bit older, Mom and Nani shared their khatna stories with me and I’ve come to see this as a weird sort of bond we share. A trauma bond, but also now an activism bond.” I lock eyes with Mom, but then look down at my page.
“My parents and nani didn’t have much to do with Maasi after I told them what happened. She died a few years ago. I don’t know how I feel about her, still.”
Nani dabs her eyes with a tissue.
“I’m not really sure what the full impact of khatna has been or will be on my life, but I’m glad I can speak to you about it today. I’ll end there, because my time is up, but I’m happy to speak more during the Q and A.”
The room explodes into applause. Mom, Dad, and Nani rise to their feet.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am grateful to everyone who guided me and offered encouragement along the way:
Alifyah Taqui, Masooma Ranalvi, Zehra Patwa, Nilufer Barucha, Gulu Rangwala, Rashida Tewarson, Savitri Dindial, Sarah Shulman, and Rashi Kilnani for double-checking details or answering questions about very obscure things.
Rachel Letofsky, my agent, for having my back. Also, the entire CookeMcDermid team for your behind-the-scenes work.
Shannon Whibbs, my editor, who suggested new directions, caught mistakes, and who’ll find a grammatical error in this sentence.
Vivek Shraya, for being an early draft reader, friend, and social media guru.
Scott Fraser, Elena Radic, Kathryn Lane, Stephanie Ellis, Laura Boyle, Sophie Paas-Lang, Barbara Bower, freelancer Crissy Calhoun, and all the other Dundurnites who welcomed this book and worked to make it a success.
The Ontario Arts Council and Toronto Arts Council for letting me take time off from my other paid work to write, stare at the wall, and go to Dholka.
Jonah Blank for Mullahs on the Mainframe and Priya Goswami for A Pinch of Skin, both of which are referenced in this book.
All my WeSpeakOut and Sahiyo comrades who are working to end khatna. We are part of a larger tsunami of feminists working to end gender-based violence across the globe. Readers who would like to learn more can check out WeSpeakOut.org and Sahiyo.com.
I offer this novel as a contribution to this important work.
My father, Shamoon Doctor, who urged me to look back. While this is a work of fiction, pieces of Abdoolally’s story were inspired by own great-great-grandfather, Hussonally Dholkawala. Thanks also to the many family members who offered memories and information about him. Special thanks to Maimoona Bengali for filling in details. For those curious about the real man, check out hussonally.wordpress.com.
Silvana Bazet, Fariya Doctor, Chloe Montclaire, and Maggie, who listened so well.
Reyan Naim, who held my heart (who always holds my heart) while I untangled the personal and literary strands of this story.
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