by Kai Kazi
“Mrs Siddiqui if you want an abortion I won’t stop you.” Dr Steyn whispered, “But this is a life we’re talking about. You have plenty of time to think it over. You’re nowhere near the cut-off yet.” She handed me a tissue and rubbed my heaving back with her hot, steady hand, “At least take some booklets, and a week to think about it.” She smiled, “If you’re still sure then we’ll move ahead then.”
It was reasonable. It was calm and thoughtful and considered, but it seemed like a horrible form of kindness to me. Dragging out the reality I didn’t want to face. My baby. My boy, or so I thought of it, who might be everything, or nothing, like his father. And I had to decide if my freedom was worth his life.
No, that’s not right. To lay it out simply like that; to weigh it as such was not right. The truth was that I had to choose who owned my body, Jalil or myself. Or the baby. And that wasn’t right either. No matter how I turned the problem, this way or that, it didn’t seem to uncoil itself.
I took her booklets and walked around the nearest park, letting the watery sun warm my cheeks while the wind bit deep into my thighs. The Scottish love of food vans proved to be useful, if reliably disgusting, and eventually I sat with a lukewarm chicken burger and a can of pineappleade, fizzy, warm, and overly sweet, on a bench while I worked through them. They listed the options so sensibly, as if it was another period I would me soaking up with a maxi pad and throwing in the bin. Before a certain amount of time pills that would induce miscarriage, after a procedure requiring local anaesthesia. Either way it would all be over in one day. My life would go back to the way it was before, if you discounted the poisoned knowledge I would carry like a cyst, and I would never let him fool me again.
Can we ever really let the past go? Could it be that easy, I wondered; to flush away the past, and the baby, and my fear in one go and continue on as before? In my case; no. They all knew I was pregnant, and they’d all know when I wasn’t. And Jalil would hit the roof, maybe literally. But how would that work out? The disgrace of divorce would be painful for my family, and return to Dhaka would be expensive if they didn’t take me back. Aunt Noor might, would most definitely, but there was no way to contact her. Staying in Scotland would be unbearable, but I could stay at the University. How would I pay for tuition?
I examined each question, turned it around in my mind, and discarded the answer because the truth was simple; there was no acceptable outcome from here. There was no happy ending, just a better one. I hugged my elbows and rocked back and forth as a waved of nausea and dizziness wracked my body.
“Are you ok?” A pale, blonde girl with a small child in a buggy stood over me,
“Yes.” I whispered,
“You don’t look alright.” She bit her lip,
“I feel sick.” I gasped, “I’m pregnant.”
She sat next to me, put the brakes on her pram and rooted in her hand bag. She offered me a Mars bar,
“They were the only thing I could keep down when I was knocked up,” she laughed, “Kai was a terror before he was even born.”
“Thank you.” I took it, but didn’t open it. She scratched the side of her head,
“When did you find out?” She asked,
“Yesterday.”
“Congratulations.” She chirped,
“Thank you.” I wanted her to go away. She was too happy, to round and cheerful and pretty with her blue eyed baby, and her easy laugh.
“Did you plan it?” She asked with a less cheerful look,
“No. It… it was forced on me.” I said,
“Oh Jesus.” She whispered, “Do you know who did it?” She touched my arm and I wanted to slap her hand away, but the soft squeeze was enough to make me cry again. Why did she care?
“It was my husband.” I whispered, “He gave me the wrong pills.”
“Bastard.” She hissed and gripped my shoulders tight, and I, for reasons known only to Allah and Jesus, collapsed into her arms and wailed like a baby.
We sat there, me, the girl, and her gurgling child, until the tears stopped.
“I want to get rid of it.” I said and stared at my nails, “I hate myself for it, but I want to get rid of it.”
“You listen to me, hen,” she said, “I might not know much, but I know this.” She gave me a tissue and leaned in, “If I’d had the choice I would have done it. I love him,” she nodded to her baby, “with all my heart. Love the bones of him, but I was only fifteen and I had plans.” She smiled tightly, “But my dad said I should be a ‘good Catholic girl’ and take responsibility.”
“He made you keep it? I mean him- I didn’t,” I gasped,
“I know.” She nodded, “Not so much. He didn’t force me, didn’t lock me away, ken? But he made it clear I wasn’t his daughter if I didn’t.” She shrugged,
“You think I should do it?” I asked, and her face changed. She looked away and shrugged,
“Can’t say,” she said, “not my place, ken? But if you think it’s right for you then you should.” She smiled, “Can’t live your life all for other people, like, not even the kiddies.” I nodded, and let those pearls fall to the bottom of my mind. She crossed her legs, pushed the pram back and forwards and then looked at me, “You look better, now. More colour in you. You were grey before.” She stood and pulled her jacket tighter about her body, “Mind what I said, eh?” I nodded, “Best of luck.”
And she left.
No names, nothing but advice and a chocolate bar. No expectations or vanity. I smiled and bit into the Mars bar.
Maybe the Scots weren’t so bad, after all. Kindness is a small mercy, but it’s one we never get as much of as we should. I swallowed my chunk with appreciation and went home to think.
Rizvi
The desire to murder is one that should remain alien to us all our lives; it’s not the same as anger, no matter how we think that it must be. It’s much colder, much harder, and it’s honed to a razor-like edge. I know because when I was standing there, reeling from the devastating force of that careless remark, I imagined killing Adra. I imagined slamming her head against a door, or pushing her head under the water the next time she took a bath.
How could she put me through a day of agony, go home with another man, turn up unannounced and then act as if my anger, my hurt was unreasonable? As if I was nothing to her. I don’t know if anyone could have blamed me, but this is not the story of a murder. This is the story of my divorce.
And it started with her tears.
“Rizvi, please, talk to me.” She kneeled next to me, gripped my knees, “I’m sorry it was a cruel thing to say, but I didn’t mean it.”
“Of course.” I said and pulled my knee away,
“I was hurt, and-”
“Hurt? What right have you got to be hurt?” I snapped and stood,
“None, but-” She frowned,
“But what?” I demanded, and she looked down,
“I tried to make things work.” She whispered, “It’s not my fault. I tried to love you.”
“Well I won’t try you any further.” I grabbed my coat and made for the door, but she grabbed my shoulder and pulled,
“Rizvi, please!” She gasped and threw herself in my way, “You can’t leave!”
“Yes I can, and I am.” I tried to step around her, but she moved to block me no matter which way I turned, “Get out of my way!”
“No.” She gripped my shirt, “We have to talk about this, you can’t leave, I’m sorry, it was-” She was smothering me,
“Get off me!” I snarled and pushed out with both hands. Adra stumbled backwards, tripped, and fell. She crouched on the ground and clutched her head, gasping and whimpering.
In a swirl of nausea and guilt I reeled into the street and staggered to the car. No keys, and no inclination to face my wrongs meant that my only option was a gut churning bus journey and the prospect of the explanation Nānī would require. I was not strong enough to face that; I was not strong enough to decide what I would have to do next. Not clear enoug
h to even think about what could be done next so, instead, I went to a gastro-pub, ordered food, and began to drink. One beer after another, one wine after another, until they asked me to leave and I realised that there was no going back.
Not tonight, not tomorrow even.
“Excuse me.” I gasped, leaning against the window of a taxi driver, “Can you take me to the nearest hotel? Something affordable?”
“I’m going to need paying, buddy,” he drawled, “up front, but sure I can take you so long as you don’t hurl” I nodded, hiccupped, and handed her twenty dollars,
“Thank you,” I whispered and settled into the stifling, dry heat of the cab. The incessant buzzing of my phone drove him insane, no doubt, because when I pulled it out to put it on silent he sighed,
“You going to answer that, buddy?” He grunted,
“No.” I hiccupped and shook my head, “No, I’m not.” I looked at the name on the screen; not Adra, but Sanjay. I couldn’t face him any more than her; I turned it off and stuffed it into my front pocket.
“Whatever.” He sighed and pulled to a stop, “This place should do you fine.” Didn’t offer change, and I was too drunk to ask so I staggered from the cab and into a small, but clean, foyer.
The night chill followed me in; the receptionist shivered before she looked up.
“Hello sir, can I help you?”
“I need a room.” I said, and leaned on the counter,
“Do you have a booking?” She smiled and tapped at her computer,
“No.”
“In that case you’ll need to pay for three night minimum, that’s $450.” She tilted her head to the side like a confused poodle. It wasn’t as attractive as she no doubt thought it was.
“Fine,” I sighed and slapped a credit card on the counter,
“Room 36.” She shook her red curls, “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you.”
Manners cost nothing even if that hotel room cost more than any decent human-being should have been allowed to charge for it. Of course it would have been fine for anyone who wasn’t just lying in it, staring at the ceiling while they wondered if it was possible to smother yourself.
Ritu
Dr Steyn seemed to think that it would be a hard decision; that I would run back and forth between decisions, but it was more like a bite of lunch that was far too big. Something I had to swallow again and again, despite the fact that I would never get used to the taste. Despite the fact that I would never come to terms with doing it.
The only alternative was spitting it out and ruining the carpet, so to speak.
If that man could lie to me, allow his mother to sabotage my chances at success without retribution, and deliberately manipulate me into a situation I had told him would be unwanted. If he could do all this to an educated woman what would he do to a child? It wasn’t a chance I could take; these weren’t a dice I could roll. So I called her three days later and made my appointment. Then I told Jalil what my choice was and left a few marks on him when he slapped me and dragged me through the house by the hair.
Jalil spat and snarled about his rights all the way, and threw me into the kitchen cupboard, kicking and screaming like a fish wife.
Ritu
“Bastard!” I screamed through the door to him as I hammered my hand against it, “You can’t do this.”
“Of course I can,” He shouted back, “you’re my wife. You think you can just kill my child?”
“I don’t know, do you think you can force me to have one?” I howled like a hurt animal and threw myself against the door, “You have no right!”
“I have the only right.” He spat back, “How else am I supposed to keep you under control than by doing these kind of things?” His arrogance, the megalomania of it, was astounding, but it was the word choice that really threw me.
“These things,” I whispered. Plural. “You hid my laptop.” His footsteps were receding, “You hid my laptop- you wanted me to fail.” I shouted after him, laughing and crying all at once. Not that he needed to intervene; the presentation had barely been finished, and I slept in. Burnout; that at least was my own fault.
How could I have let myself get so rundown that the exhaustion came from nowhere and knocked me from my feet? I didn’t even finish my dinner.
“Jalil!” I kicked the door, “Let me out!”
“Shut up!” Zahra shouted back,
“Zahra let me out!” I threw my shoulder against the door again and again until a sharp, shooting pain made it impossible to continue. He would let me out before he went to bed, but until then I was stuck in the cold, dampness of the “laundry room” that was really a glorified cupboard so I sat on the washing machine and pulled on a few pairs of worn socks and a dirty jumper. And I waited.
But he didn’t come to let me out; he opened the door, pushed me back hard enough to send me sprawling into the stack of shopping bags and put a plate of food on the floor before slamming the door in my face. Whatever they had in front of the door must have been heavy because it didn’t have a lock, but still didn’t shift no matter how hard I pushed. In the end I paced back and forward for a few minutes before sitting down to eat a barely warm dinner.
I wiped my mouth, pushed the plate away and stared at the woodgrain on the door until a curious drowsiness came down on me. The world pulsed and my eyes itched, and my head began to droop as a familiar dry feeling crept up my throat. I let myself slip forward until I was lying on the floor and blinked at the plate. A fine white powder dusted the very edge of it; I scooped it up with numb fingers and touched it to my tongue.
A bitter medicinal taste, and a flood of saliva.
“Bastard.” I whispered, “Utter… bastard.”
Somewhere in the night the door opened and strong hands gripped my underarms. Snatches of sound, and light. Carpet dragging against my knees and the suffocating sensation that comes when you lie face first in your pillow.
Our bedroom door did have a lock; all the bedrooms did in these old houses. I realised in the night, between cold sweats, periods of gasping lucidity, and fevered nightmares, that I had been wrong. The shame of divorce wasn’t the worst he could throw at me. The nightmare of marriage was.
Rizvi
“Nānī everything is fine,” I lied through my teeth, “she came home.”
“And where was she, what happened? Rizvi you’re not telling me something, and I want to know what it is!” Nānī sounded so frail, her voice high and thin, that I wondered for a moment if we should have brought her with us, and if Neyha was taking good care of her.
“Nānī… please, just tell Adra’s Amma everything is ok. I don’t know if she’s called her yet, but someone should.”
“And why would she not have?” Nānī demanded, “How could you not know, I thought she was home?”
“She is Nānī,” I sighed, “but I’m not. I’m at work right now, having my lunch,” that much was true at least, “and she wasn’t on the phone to her Amma when I left.” Also true. All I had to do was figure out a way to tell her that I’d been staying in a hotel for nearly a week now.
Baby steps.
“Look Nānī I have to go now, but I’ll call you soon. Love you.” I hung up as Steve strode towards me,
“Feeling better, Rizvi?” He wasn’t angry, that was a switch,
“Yes.” I said quietly and watched pity mix with something else on his face,
“Sanjay told us about your wife, is she home now?” He pulled a chair to my desk,
“Yes. She came home later on Monday… she…” I sighed, “she’s fine, but we’re not exactly on good terms right now.” Steve nodded,
“You going to talk to her about it?” He asked,
“Probably. Maybe.” I shrugged, “Soon.”
“Well don’t leave it too long, eh? You don’t want it to fester.” He said and clapped my shoulder with a huge, smooth hand. Everyone had their piece to say, but Steve’s made more sense than most. She was my wife, after all, and I owed it to
our families, if not to her, to try.
I reasoned out her actions.
Maybe, I told myself, she slept on the couch, or it was only a kiss. Could I forgive that? Maybe. Or maybe she was so drunk that she wasn’t really thinking; maybe she was too drunk to say no. The thought was sickening, hurtful in some strange queasy way; the idea that she was helpless and taken advantage of. She hadn’t looked that drunk on the CCTV, but he could have easily given her more wine when they got to his.
Maybe I hadn’t been her fault at all!
I latched onto the hope as if it was my only lifeline and went in search of Sanjay; he wasn’t at his desk, though.
“Mary, have you seen Sanjay?” I leaned into her office,
“Nope, sorry honey,” she said in her dense Texan drawl, “he didn’t come in today. Said he had some kind of emergency he needed to deal with.”
“Is he alright?” I frowned,
“I think so,” Mary tossed her hair and frowned, “he said something about a friend, so I don’t think it’s him.”
“Right. Ok.” So that left me at a dead end; no-one to bounce ideas off of. Mary leaned back in her chair,
“Everything alright, hon?”
“Fine.” I said and left before she could probe any further, “I’m fine. Steve!” I hailed him from the opposite side of the office, “I thought about what you said and I’m going home to talk to Adra. Do you mind? I’ll make the hours up?” He shrugged and threw his hands up,
