by Kai Kazi
My notebooks, laptop, and textbooks; all gone along with my purse.
I padded back downstairs and stared at their carefully blank spaces. Jalil blinked,
“That suits you.” He said and motioned to the Sari, “It reminds me of what you wore at the wedding.”
The wedding, I swallowed, not ‘our’. ‘The’.
Being so utterly trapped is a strange sensation; the mind speeds up while the world around you slows. Every detail is catalogued and examined for usefulness. It’s like breathing syrup. Swimming in tar. I ironed and folded the clothes. I swept and cleaned the floor. I did whatever they asked with wide, alert eyes and waited. But it wasn’t usually good enough. Zahra huffed and slammed bags down on the counter beside me one afternoon; I wasn’t allowed to go to the shops anymore. Not even to the Desi market around the corner. I was a house cat, like Kuma.
“You need to learn how to cook, properly.” She said, “Though Allah knows I haven’t the time.” An idea, a glimmer of hope,
“Nazneen can teach me, Amma,” I whispered with my head down, “she might like the help with Mitun, and you wouldn’t have to teach me then.” I said,
“You think you’re so smart, hm?” She slapped the counter, “As if I’ll believe that’s what you’re thinking.”
Panic, freeze. A rabbit under the gaze of a hawk.
“You want to see Nazneen?” She said archly. Breath.
“Yes!” I smiled and nodded, squashing it quickly, “Sorry.” She grunted and grumbled,
“She is a good girl… maybe she’ll be a good influence.” Zahra tapped her nails on the counter, “Fine.”
Victory.
“Thank you.” I said, not looking up. Zahra froze, raised her hand, and then walked away.
This is how you trick jailers into trusting you; act as if you are broken. Be a robot, and take each slap with gratitude. The goal is the keys.
Nazneen wasn’t the key, but she was the hook that might get them. She kept a sad distance from me while Zahra was there, gripping my fingers and crying for my bruises when she was gone. I tried to be a good student, and in fact I was; I learned quickly, and enjoyed the process, strangely enough, in the absence of more intellectual pursuits.
“You’re doing so well, Bōna,” she said and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “you won’t need me soon.”
“I’ll always need you.” I laughed, “Your chapatti’s are much better than mine. I’ll never get them right.”
“But my poppadum’s are always soggy,” she laughed, “so we’re even.”
“If you had the patience to leave them longer they wouldn’t be.” I said and turned the chapatti over. “See- this one’s burnt.” I snapped and snatched it from the pan, throwing it into the bin.
Nazneen took over, leaving me with Mitun,
“You’re stressed, Bōna,” she said, “you must be, cooped up in here all the time. I’ll ask Amma if you can come to the market with me when I go tomorrow.” She smiled, and I tried to look mildly interested rather than ecstatic.
“That would be nice.” I said and wiped Mituns chin. It would be nice.
It was nice, but it wasn’t the break I had hoped it would be. It was a one off, and in the end I went back to captivity with the exception of one day out a fortnight. Day by day the little girl who read, and wrote, and drew voraciously disappeared behind a demure mask and a bright sari. It was like a fall, and the sudden stop at the end was the realisation that the little girl had slipped away entirely. I no longer dreamed about her, or the tiger pit as I had done intermittently for months.
I didn’t even think about her until a letter dropped through the door when I was alone. The routine went as such; gather all the mail and put it on the bedside table for Jalil. He would give me mine after reading it. A precaution introduced after Aunt Noor sent me a letter from Dhaka inviting me to visit. The envelope she had given me was opened, the cheque inside cashed to make up for the clothing bought to replace my old ones. Whenever Amma and Babu phoned they said I was out.
Surely they were suspicious now, but I couldn’t have said. Months of putting off calling them in favour of quick emails. They were used to not hearing from me now, so no doubt they thought I was too busy with the University classes that I had never been allowed to attend. Even the letter informing me of my expulsion came to me second hand. That loss hit harder than the miscarriage, and I didn’t think about what that said of me.
This letter, though, came at the right time. That morning I had stared at the blood on my sanitary towel, remembering the cramps, until my eyes were dry and itchy. My own Nānī had told me about all this when I was young and asked her why Amma was so tired and irritable one day. I realised that I had no idea what she looked like that day, or what the house had smelled like. Her voice was lost. I was lost. So I ripped that letter open with a guilty thrill and devoured the contents without understanding. The words swam and came into focus; two things became clear. Aunt Noor was dead, and she had named me her next of kin. I was to call her lawyer.
I reached for the phone slowly, as if it would bite, and tapped the number in with knots in my stomach. The first car that passed sent me reeling from the phone; I slammed it onto the receiver so hard I thought it might crack and turned to the sink. Nothing, of course. Zahra was watching Mitun, Nazneen and Ibrahim were celebrating their anniversary, and Jalil was at work. I was locked in. I reasoned all this and crept back to the phone.
“H-hello?” I whispered, and a voice answered in Bengali,
“Hello, Lakshmi agency, can I help you?” A bright, female voice chirped,
“My name is Ritu Siddiqui,” I said with more confidence, “I was sent a letter regarding my Aunts estate?”
“Hold please.” She said and the line went blank. I counted breaths and watched cobweb flutter,
“Mrs Siddiqui?” A cool, male voice answered,
“Yes, hello?” I said,
“Hello, my name is Sandeep I was your Aunt’s lawyer.” He said, “How are you today?” I thought about the blood, the memories, the cramps, and the new bruise on my thigh,
“Fine, and yourself?” I said,
“Very well, thank you.” He coughed, “We sent other letters, inviting you to your Aunts funeral and will reading, but we received no reply… did you get those letters?”
“They never came to me, I’m afraid.” I said, the master of half-truths, “How did she die?”
“Breast cancer.” He said, “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” I said without thinking, and then explained, “I never got to know her very well.”
“Well she was fond of you, obviously.” He said, “She left you her estate in full, saving five million taka which went to a rape crisis centre in Dhaka.”
“five million taka?” I repeated,
“She was fairly affluent.” He said with a laugh, fairly affluent? She was more than that. No wonder she never had to crawl back to Nānī, “Are you free to come to Dhaka? To discuss her will?”
“I’m afraid not,” I said, “I… am…” trapped, held hostage. My husband is a monster. Help, “My husband wouldn’t allow it.” I said,
“I see…” He coughed, “Well, can we discuss it now?”
“Please.” I said, jumping as footsteps clicked down the street,
“She left you the equivalent of one hundred thousand pounds sterling,” he said, “most of it is tied up in a small internet bistro and a house that she owned, but roughly ten thousand pounds has been held between a fixed ISA and a savings account which she opened in your name.”
“When did she open this account?” I asked,
“Roughly a year ago, Mrs Siddiqui,” he said, and then added, “when she received her diagnosis.”
That woman, who I had never known, who had been cut from my life when I was a young girl, had done all this for me. I pressed my hand to my mouth, and felt the wetness on my face.
“I see.” I whispered,
“She opened this with an inte
rnational Bank… Sandtander?” He asked. I nodded,
“Yes, I know it.”
“You can access this whenever you wish.” He said, “But the rest will need to be transferred into your possession. Do I have your permission to continue?”
“How much is in the savings account?” I croaked,
“Around four thousand pounds sterling, I believe.” He said after a short pause. An incredible amount of money in Taka,
“I’ll come to the office and arrange it with you.” I said, clutching the letter tight. All I had to do was find my passport.
Rizvi
Divorce is a shame that so few of us ever expect. Tradition has it that no matter what our spouses do we should stand by them. A marriage is sacred, of course, but in practice men have more wriggle room than women. It’s a strange thing to be disgusted with your own friends and family, but I found that to be an ever growing possibility.
No doubt it had as much to do with my infatuation as a sense of social justice, but I’ll lay claim to the moral high ground as well. There’s so little else that can be done. I got the house, and the bedroom furniture.
I even got the dining room table.
She got everything else, a gift with my compliments and an implied request that she leave me alone for the rest of our natural lives. Everything but the dignity and respect she had walked into the marriage with. How much of that had to do with her actions I couldn’t say. She deserved the derision, and the contempt, I suppose. So why it left a sour taste in my mouth to go with the pain I’ll never know. Our friends, the young generation, understood perfectly. To Nānī and her friends she was a useless whore. A woman without honor or scruples.
I was glad Adra wouldn’t have to go back to Dhaka, in a way, because she would be a shame to her family there.
Ritu
I turned the house upside down in minutes, ransacking every drawer and nook until a small lockbox came to light. The padlock held fast, tearing my nails and skin, until I dashed the box against the wall again and again. It cracked like an egg, eventually, and spilled documents onto the carpet. I spread them and pulled them apart until they came into view; my passport, and Jalil’s. He had been arrogant enough to keep them, and to keep them in the house.
He never thought I would run that far, and I couldn’t figure out whether to be disgusted or elated.
I settled for determined, and scooped both up, pushing them into a canvas shopping bag, before squirming out the kitchen window and walking calmly up the back streets. My heart thundered every time a black car rounded the corner. One slowed, and bile flooded my mouth,
“Excuse me, hen?” A pale, red haired man leaned from the window. My knees wobbled with relief, “D’you ken how to get to Bellshill from here?” I shook my head,
“Sorry.”
“It’s alright pal.” He laughed and pulled off. I wonder how long it took him to get there, sometimes.
The nearest Santander was on Jalils way home from work; I raced into it just as the teller was getting ready to close up,
“Sorry petal, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.” She said,
“Please!” I spread my hands on the counter and leaned forward, “Please, I’ll be as quick as possible. Help me.” My face, rather than my thick, stumbling words, must have convinced her because she nodded slowly and sat back down. “My aunt opened an account in my name a year ago. I need to empty it.”
“Name?” She said,
“Ritu Siddiqui.” I swallowed and looked at the door,
“No account in your name, love, sorry.” She said,
“Please,” I gasped, shaking by now, “check again. It’s a savings account.”
“Soduko, you said?” She sighed,
“No. Siddiqui. S, I, D, D, I, Q, U, I.” I spelled it out slowly, and watched her eys flicked back and forth over the screen.
“I’ll need I.D. and a signature for this amount of money.” She said, “You’re lucky- you’re just under our cut off.”
“Cut off?” I frowned,
“Over five grand and you need to give us a days notice. Branch policy.” She said before turning away from me, and producing paperwork. “Fill this out and pass your I.D over.” I gave her my passport with a dry mouth. She checked my signature, details, and passport before handing me a frighteningly small bundle of money. “That everything?” She raised her fair brows again,
“Where’s the nearest taxi rank?” I whispered,
“About a mile that way,” she pointed and then sighed, “want me to call you one?”
“Please.”
“Where to?” She said with the air one someone who has suspicions and a plan to report them,
“Glasgow airport.”
The taxi driver couldn’t have been happier with the twenty pound tip he got, and I hoped this would buy his discretion, if not his silence. But I worried about it while I huddled on the hard airport seats. Paying for a ticket in cash must have caught some eyes; a smartly dressed woman clicked over and asked invited me to a private interview room. Thankfully she was sympathetic to my story, and convinced by my willingness to help. A cavity search was a small price to pay for freedom. They had their suspicions, I could tell, so I bought a book, a coffee, and a muffin before huddling in the corner in an attempt to look calm. Normal. The word tasted stranger and stranger the closer I got to the gate.
I waited for the hand on my shoulder, the shout, the denial of entry while the gate attendant checked my passport and ticket. But he only nodded and twitched his head towards the gate. Everyone watched, stared at me as if I was a specimen under a microscope. I’m an educated woman, you fools! I took my seat in silence, I’m not a village girl; I wear jeans and get my nails done! I drink… I used to. They suspected me of something, no doubt.
But I couldn’t be offended; the plane took off, and I was free.
Ritu
Freedom is a word without definition; it’s different for everyone.
I wanted to be a historian, I wanted to study, but I found my freedom in a small internet café bistro. I found I loved cooking when I don’t have to do it for an ungrateful man and a vicious mother-in-law. I prefer the office work though; the bistro was successful enough under Aunt Noor, but it’s my new goal to make it into a chain. A franchise. And why not? The new generation of Bangladeshi want fair-trade coffee and internet cafes to go with their home-made meals and traditional festivals. This is a country of change and fusion. I’ve found that I love Dhaka’s future even more than its past. I found my freedom in taking part in the process as well as understanding the development.
I found it in being honest with my parents. Amma cried, Babu shouted. But they visit now and then, and they understood eventually. They don’t condone the divorce publicly, but I think they missed me. I am not my Aunt Noor, but I am this because of her and that is something they needed time to come to terms with. They suggest matches, but don’t push. I might accept one day.
Sandeep, Mr Dixit, was helpful as Noor’s lawyer. More so as mine. He made sure Jalil had to wade through so much red tape that he couldn’t afford to come near me or oppose the divorce, and I live with the shame he claims I have heaped upon myself.
Funny how easy it is to live with shame as an independent, wealthy woman. The village girl he’s trapped this time might not have the same luxury. Then again she might never want it. Wisdom comes with the understanding that we are, none of us, the same, and yet we are all one. If he can make her happy then I wish them all the best.
Rizvi
“The damn flights been delayed,” I shouldered into the café, out of the warm torrential rain and shook my head, “I’ll be back as soon as possible, but not tonight.” Dhaka in the rain is like a soap opera heroine; all passion and relentless motion.
“I’ll delay the client as long as possible?” Taylor, my assistant, asked,
“No, just tell them the truth.” I sighed; he was talented, but too used to working for politicians, “Offer them ten percent off their next
quote and send me the documents. I’m in a café, there’s wifi.” I said, “I’ll work on them while I wait.”
“Sure.” He said,
“Call me if anything goes wrong.” I said and hung up. It was busy enough, mostly with locals, but it was close enough to the University that there were exchange students dotted about in pale groups.
Emails; emails everywhere and not a minute to think. My second visit to Dhaka had been all business, and Nānī would no doubt hold it over me until the day she died. Expansion was the key to growth, and though it was risky I was sure it would be worth it in the end. I pocketed the over-sized, overly expensive phone Taylor had talked me into getting and approached the counter. A brown-haired, pale girl approached,
“Just a black coffee, please.” I said, “And the wifi code.” The barista sounded an affirmative in her alien accent, a student no doubt, just as a hand landed on my shoulder,
“I thought I recognised you.” A smooth, melodic voice said. The woman attached to the arm was familiar, but strange all at once. “Hello Rizvi.” She said and smiled, “You don’t remember me?”
I didn’t. I panicked and wondered if I should have when she laughed, and realisation flooded into me with it,
“Ritu?” I threw up my hands, nearly losing my phone, “Ya Allah, is it really you?”
“Yes!”
“What are you doing here?” I ran a hand through my hair,
