by Kai Kazi
“You may as well, bud, it’s a slow day, and it’s nearly done.” He pointed at me, “Do seven til six next Monday and we’ll call it quits?” I nodded and grabbed my jacket,
“Thank you.” I said and hurried out the door, taking the stairs two at a time rather than the elevator, and rushed out into the cool sunshine. The car was still with Adra so I hailed a cab and hunched in the cool interior with shaking hands while the streets became lower, less crowded, and the tall skyscrapers turned to our low, leafy suburb.
The car was outside, she must have taken the day off for some reason; guilt consumed me. I should have called her even if I was angry. She might have been sitting waiting for me to call, worried and upset. The door slid open, and a low fear gripped me; it was hard to forget her falling away from me, gripping her head, pleading for me to stay. What if she couldn’t forgive that? What if I never forgot?
Then a laugh trickled through the house. Adra’s. I smiled and closed the door behind me, moving towards the living room,
“Adra, I-”
The world can stop; time isn’t a river, but a lake. My world stopped then because Adra was in, and she was happy. The problem was who she was with. She raised her head and opened her mouth, but didn’t try to speak. Maybe she knew that this was the end. Sanjay certainly seemed to anticipate his own end because he was up in an instant, jabbering and explaining in mixed English and Bengali.
“Out.” It was less than a whisper, more of a breath,
“Rizvi,” he gasped,
“Out.” This time a forceful, but quiet command,
“Rizvi please I-”
“Out!” They flinched when I screamed, Allah save me I enjoyed his pale face fear more than I should have, and he fled. Adra sat very still, as if any move would be the end of her. It could have been, “I’ll take my things.” I said, and she covered her mouth, sobbing quietly, “And I’ll get a lawyer.”
“A lawyer?” She whispered, hiccuping and sniffing,
“I want a divorce.” I swallowed my hate and bagged my clothes without another word, though she cried and pleaded enough for both of us.
“You can’t leave!” She gripped my arm,
“Why not?” I snorted, “You have your green card.” She looked so hurt that I almost apologised,
“I do like you Rizvi,” she whispered, “I thought that, eventually…” she shrugged, “I didn’t set out to hurt you.”
“I…” I knew that, in a way, but it did hurt. It hurt more than I thought I could bear, and now I would have to bear it. “I know.” I sighed, “But you did, and I won’t spend the rest of my life wondering when you’re going to do it again.” She wiped her eyes, though she was still crying,
“Please.”
“No.” I shook my head, “I can’t.”
“At least stay until you find somewhere else,” she pressed her hands together as if praying, “Please.” I thought about it; I could sleep in the spare room, save money on hotel rooms, and spend some time with her.
“No.” I sighed, “Thank you, but no.” I packed my bags and left with my shoulders held high, and the car keys firmly in my grasp. The hotel car park was empty, save myself and a few abandoned cars, so I pulled out my mobile and pinched the bridge of my nose,
“Nānī,” I whispered when she answered, “I’m sorry… I know it’s late.”
“Rizvi what’s wrong?” Nānī said, her voice hoarse and cracked,
“It’s Adra,” I whispered, “I’m divorcing her.” I stumbled on that word, coughed, and let it all out. She said nothing while I sobbed and whimpered down the phone, but when the grief and anger, the feeling of being laughed at, humiliated, and looked down on, abated I could feel the tide of questions.
“Why?” Was all she said, “Is there nothing else to do?”
“No, Nānī, there’s nothing else.” I whispered and slumped back against my seat, “Nothing at all.”
“Will you come home?” She whispered. There was a question,
“No, Nānī. I’m already home.” I said, “But I will come back and see you for a few weeks when it’s all done with.” She sighed,
“Well, yes.” She said and coughed, the sound tinny and faint. She didn’t approve, I knew, but said nothing and I loved her a little more for that. For trusting that I knew what needed to be done.
Ritu
Here I was; locked in like a dangerous animal, drugged when I was too loud, and cajoled when I was too quiet. They didn’t want me to be in here, I knew, they wanted me to be a quiet, demure little wife. A village girl who thought that her husband was God. That’s exactly what he should have looked for, but he wanted an educated woman as well. He wanted everything.
Five days, give or take the time I lost to sedation, of captivity ended here. With him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at me with is cool, bastard eyes while he pressed his lips together,
“What day is it?” I croaked,
“Thursday.” He said, “the twelfth.” I shut my eyes and suppressed tears; I had missed my appointment.
“If you let me out now I can make a new appointment,” I whispered, “I won’t tell the police, please.” He laughed,
“You think I’ll let you kill my child? Really?” He snorted and shook his head,
“Jalil please, I can’t do it. I can’t-”
“You mean you don’t want to?” He said,
“Yes.” I admitted, throat cracking,
“Well it’s not just about what you want is it?” He said, “You’re carrying a child, my child, and no matter what you think that’s more important that you and your books and what you want.” He tutted, “How did you get to be so selfish.”
“That’s not fair.” I whispered, “You bastard that’s not fair! You can’t force me to do this!” I slapped the bed with open palms.
But evidently he thought he could; he left and locked the door behind him.
“Jalil!” I rattled the door, slammed my hips and shoulders against it, and screamed until he thundered back up the stairs and threw the door open, casting me to the side. Vice like hands gripped my arms, dragged me up, and he shook hard enough to rattle my teeth together,
“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, “or I’ll shut you up. Understand?”
“Help!” I screamed and kicked, hoped the neighbours would be in and that they would have the guts to say something to someone. A broad, flat palm came from nowhere and cracked across my face, snapping it to the side.
“Shut up.” He growled and gripped my hair, shaking, “I’ve had enough of you. You think you’re in charge? You’re not, I am. Do as you’re fucking told.” Whether he slammed my head onto the floor, or if it fell badly I couldn’t say, but the world swam and bright lights blossomed behind closed eyelids. When I managed to get back into bed it was getting dark and hunger was setting in. A cold dish of food lay on the bedside table.
I rolled over, turned my back to it and waited for the house to fall silent.
Zahra came to check on me, made a sound of disgust, and took the food away. Did she know what he was putting in her good, home-made cooking? Would she care?
The window came open slowly, but without too much protest; the windows had been replaced recently enough and made little sound, but I waited for an investigator anyway. When none came I braved the wind by sticking my head out of the window to look around; the tall concrete wall that divide our garden from the neighbours was tantalisingly close, but wet and narrow. I pulled my head back inside and gripped the window sill with a pounding heart. This was my only chance. I hunted through the underwear drawer for the envelop Aunt Noor had given me, still unopened, and tucked it into my bra before heading back to the window and readying myself.
I extended a shaking foot from the window, and placed the bare sole onto the thin, wet sill outside. It groaned, but held as I shimmied out, holding onto the drain pipe so tightly that my fingers began to ache. The wind seemed determined to blow right through me, but the rough stone of the wall was steady
under my feet, though I had to stretch a terrifying distance to reach it. I wobbled and shook as the rain picked up and stuck my hair to my face; if I could make my way along the wall it would be easy to slip into their back garden and ask them to call the police. Or to take me to the station. They were aloof, and we rarely talked, but they seemed kind. I lowered to my knees and crawled along the wall, shaking and swaying when the wind picked up, and lowered myself over when the ground was close enough.
Their lights were off, but I knocked the doors and windows anyway, shivering in the growing dark. This was not a part of the plan, but I could try again. That was the key thing; I could try again when they were in. I looked up at the open window and realised that meant getting back up.
Deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and I hauled myself back up onto the wall, wincing as sharp stone scraped through soft leggings. Good thing I’ve lost some weight, I clambered and crawled back up the staggered length of the wall before standing to reach for the window sill. It was easier to watch the tips of my fingers, much more reassuring to see them grab the sill than it was to realise they would have to lift me back up to it. The leg I stretched out to the drainpipe shook, twitched, and then spasmed as my weight settled on it and a crack ran out. The cry that echoed around the garden seemed to come from nowhere; the shooting pain was too intense. It took precedence over everything. Everything went black, then blue, and pulsed as a wave of saliva flooded my mouth and the taste of copper sent waves of nausea crawling up my throat.
“Ritu! What the fuck have you done?” Jalil pulled me onto my back; the sill above was broken, dangling by a thread. I closed my eyes against the rain, and let the pain rise and fall like a tide until there was no fall; it rose and shrunk, concentrating in the pit of my stomach. Then it broke and spilled fire into the muscles there. Arching and crying, I tried to turn onto my stomach again, but hands and vice like fingers stopped that in its tracks.
The world disappeared, and then became white and dry and filled with rattling. Nothing was still; Jalil was holding my hand, but his eyes were narrow and venomous. The searing pain settled into biting cramps and an unhealthy wetness around the crotch and buttocks. A kind eyed, blonde hair woman pressed her hand to my shoulder,
“Ritu, honey? You’ve had a bad fall. It’s ok, you’re going to be fine.” I nodded and let my head fall back.
Flashes, the smell of disinfectant, and a light shining, unbearably bright,
“It hurts.” I managed to mumble,
“Where?” A disembodied voice with a Bengali accent. I pressed both hands to my stomach,
“Why does it hurt?”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Why?” I gasped,
“You’re having a miscarriage, Mrs Siddiqui, caused by your fall. I’m sorry.” The voice came with a hand this time, smooth and brown, and a set of worried eyes.
Strangely enough I was sorry, too.
“I’m sorry.” I whispered,
“Don’t.” Jalils voice came from the limits of the room, “Don’t even speak to me.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you.” I croaked and let it all go.
Rizvi
She fought like a lion to stop the divorce; I couldn’t really understand why, though, until Carla enlightened me,
“When did you two get married?” She asked, taking a long drag on her cigarette; she had lapsed back into old habits since leaving Sanjay,
“August 23rd 2008.” I said,
“Well that explains it.” She laughed, “She’ll fold at the end of next month, I promise you that.” She said,
“What makes you think that?” I cut into the fish in front of me and winced as the other occupants of the beer garden exploded into raucous laughter. She waited, took a drink, and when they had calmed down said,
“By then you’ll have been married over two years.” She stubbed out the cigarette and picked up her burger,
“What does that change?” I mumbled through a mouthful of fish,
“She’ll be entitled to half of your assets, and she’ll keep her green card.” She snorted, but noticed my face, “Sorry, sweetie.” She mumbled,
“No…” I shrugged, “it’s ok. She pretty much admitted that’s why she married me in the first place.” I swallowed and put the cutlery down, “You don’t… do you think this was her plan all along?” She chewed slowly, buying time, and shrugged,
“Maybe. Maybe not, does it matter?” She asked,
“It matters to me.” I said and pinched the bridge of my nose, “It matters.” She sighed and gripped my hand.
“You’ll be fine. I know you don’t think so now, but you will.” She said, “And one day you’ll realise she was never worth getting upset about.”
Platitudes and niceties, but she meant it. She believed it, and that was worth something, at least. I nodded and smiled,
“Thanks.” The words sounded less sincere than they were, but if she was offended she said nothing. We watched the sun crawl across the sky; this friendship was a strange one. We were bound together by anger and understanding, but we had little to say to each other. It was just nice to be reminded that we were not alone, probably.
Of course more often than not I was, and that was when the doubts crept in; if she was so against the idea perhaps I should give her one more chance. But what if she waited until her assets, so to speak, were confirmed and turned the tables. What if she didn’t and the whole mess repeated itself. What if it worked. I sorted and discarded my hopes and fears into specific categories.
Likely.
Possible.
Hopeless.
Most of the fears were in the first camp, of course.
So I kept phoning the lawyer, and I asked her about what Carla had said. She didn’t laugh, bless her, but she did sigh,
“I won’t lie to you Mr Khan it’s possible.” She said, “It happens now and then. You’re a good man with a promising career. Opportunists would be drawn to that.”
“So you think she’ll agree at the end of August?” I asked,
“If she’s going to agree at all it would be after then, yes.” I could hear her pen scratching, “You should think about whether or not there’s anything you definitely want to keep.” She said, “It’ll help things move faster.”
“The house.” I said, “She can’t pay for it on her wages alone, and I put the deposit down.” I rubbed my mouth, “Tell her she can have everything else, including the car. She can take everything but the house and the bedroom furniture. That was all mine anyway.”
“That’s very generous.” She said it in the way one might talk to a slow child,
“I just want this to be over with.” I sighed,
“I understand.”
Everyone understood.
They all told me so, but it sounded like verbal diarrhoea. Eventually I told them so, in those words more or less, and they stopped talking. They couldn’t wipe the pity from their eyes, though, and eventually I stopped going to work. Stopped going out.
I just wanted it to be over. I just wanted it all to be over.
The doctors were helpful; anti-depressants, sleeping pills, and beta blockers were offered by different doctors. I accepted them all in turn, and took none. Until it occurred to me to take them all. The urge to die, much like the urge to kill, is intense, but short lived. The panic of suicide comes quickly, and motivates like nothing else, and nothing reminds us how humble we really should be like crouching in your own vomit, begging to live.
It was a stupid thing to do, obviously, but it served a purpose; the paramedics called Adra. It might not be very Muslim of me, but I hoped that she suffered. I hoped she blamed herself, even for a minute. When I woke up I prayed for the first time in years. I prayed for forgiveness, and for deliverance. Allah didn’t answer, but Adra did. When I got back to the cheap boarding house I had taken up in there was an envelope with my name on it. The divorce papers.
Signed the 24th of August 2010.
I
looked at the landlady and laughed, waving the papers like a flag, while she hovered, confused and probably frightened. A sour victory, or a sweet defeat?
Ritu
They brought me home in a wheelchair; the fall had broken nothing, but the doctors wanted to be sure. Bed rest for a week, and then gentle exercise. The miscarriage had not, so far as they could tell, affected my fertility. But it left a mark on me.
Allah, forgive me. I wanted it gone, but now I can’t remember why.
It is the better outcome. I know this, but don’t feel the truth of it in my bones as I did before. Allah forgive me. Child forgive me. I should have taken you and run rather than running from you. I say this all in a fever, apparently, because a nurse leans down and whispers to me that a child must be wanted, and kindness can be cruel.
Perhaps this pain is the result of a motherly choice; maybe it is the price to pay for doing the right thing.
I remember the slaps, the insults and the manipulation, and tell myself that the child could not have born into that. This is a fact that becomes more clear when the morphine fades and my world changes yet again.
Ritu
Zahra deposited a basket of washed clothes in front of me and brushed the front of her sari down,
“Iron and fold these.” It was not a question; it was an order,
“Excuse me?” I raised my eyebrows and tilted my chin upwards to be rewarded with a slap,
“Do as you’re told, and put this on.” She threw a Sari at me. That was the start. A look through my wardrobe showed that they had thrown out all my clothes in my absence. Replaced with traditional clothing.
