by Samra Zafar
I suppose I could have used this time to confront Ahmed about what Amma had said about my education and about where we would live. It was certainly the route my mother would have liked me to take. During her visit and our later phone calls, she encouraged me to raise my concerns with Ahmed, to demand that he stand up to his parents, to tell him what I wanted and needed. But after months of feeling as if I were being rubbed raw, the peace that was returning to my life was like a cool, soothing balm. I didn’t want to give that up. Besides, Ahmed had had to sign on to the mortgage so that Amma and Abba could qualify for a bigger loan, so for the time being our future was locked into that house. As for school, well, Ahmed’s actions seemed to be challenging my assumptions about that. In the evenings, I would pull out the calculus workbook. He didn’t say a thing. Instead, he often came to sit beside me and patiently help me with the questions. He never discouraged my work or asked why I kept at it. And when I did well on a test or assignment, he responded with enthusiastic encouragement and what seemed to be a measure of pride.
Ah, I thought. Perhaps he wasn’t lying to me after all. This is how we will do it. I will work quietly at night until I have finished my high school courses. Then I will apply to university. Once I am accepted, we will tell Amma and Abba about our plans.
But in the meantime, we would have to be careful not to show our cards.
CHAPTER 7
TURBULENT WATERS
Amma was, of course, still present in our lives that fall. She called every day, and although she had packed up her personal belongings before she left, she supervised the rest of the packing by phone. Eventually, with her guidance, Ahmed, Abba and I had the whole condo in boxes.
At the beginning of November, we moved into the new house.
When Ahmed pulled the car into the driveway, I felt my heart beat a little faster. It was a large, salmon-coloured two-storey brick house at the end of a cul-de-sac. When we walked through the front door, space opened up before me. On the ground floor was a living room and a den, as well as a family room adjoining the kitchen. Upstairs was a pretty little bedroom where I could have a desk for my late-night school work, with a bathroom across the hall. Next to it, a bedroom that would be Aisha’s. And out back, a yard where Aisha and I could play in the open air, maybe even putter in the garden when she was a little older, the way I used to do with my father.
But as we moved our furniture in, it became clear that Ahmed did not quite see the new house as the fresh start that I did. I watched sadly as he moved his computer and the sofa bed into the den. We would not be sharing a room. I was disappointed but had to think we had a better chance at a nice life together now that there was more room for privacy.
The first month or so in the house was almost as relaxed as the previous weeks in the condo. I tried to set up the house as best I could. I unpacked the glassware and spices and put them in the cupboards, knowing full well that this was only their temporary home. Amma would come back and change everything.
As the days got shorter and darker, I found myself increasingly overwhelmed with dread at the thought of her return. And then it was mid-December and Amma was striding into the house, clearly happy to be back—but not so happy that she didn’t comment with disapproval on the arrangement of the furniture and the contents of the fridge.
A pervading tension returned to the house with my mother-in-law. Almost as soon as Amma had unpacked her bags, Ahmed stopped talking to me. He no longer wanted back rubs in the evening. And while he was still positive and encouraging when I occasionally showed him a test I did well on, he quit helping me with my homework. I tried to see this as temporary, as simply a bend in the river. Just keep your head above water, I told myself. Our course will change again.
When it did, however, the waters became more turbulent. Ahmed lost his job.
* * *
As soon as we took possession of the house, Ahmed had come under financial strain. Amma and Abba had used the equity in the condo as a down payment, but even with Abba’s job they couldn’t afford to carry the house on their own. Ahmed had joined Abba in taking out the mortgage, and it had been agreed that the payments would be made by one person: Ahmed. Amma and Abba would pay for groceries, but most of the bills for the house, as well as all the things Aisha needed, were Ahmed’s responsibility—a burden that had resulted in maxed-out credit cards. And now Ahmed was without a steady income to cover even the minimum payments.
Of course, he explained none of this to me. Whenever I asked about money, he dismissed me. But I overheard his conversations with his parents—and I could put two and two together.
After a few weeks, Ahmed managed to find a couple of part-time, under-the-table jobs. This helped, but the new jobs didn’t generate enough money to pay the bills.
This new stress unleashed an anger in Ahmed that was almost constant. And it was focused in my direction. The very sight of me seemed to agitate him. He took to calling me names: useless, worthless, bitch. One evening I went into the den to ask him if he wanted a cup of tea. He was sitting at his computer. Instead of answering, he picked up a pen from the desk and threw it at me.
“Get out of here, bitch!”
Another time, I told him Aisha needed diaper cream. He picked up a water bottle and pitched it in my direction. “Get lost. I don’t have money to waste.”
This happened more and more often—this throwing of things as a way to respond to me. And no matter how affectionate or supportive I tried to be, I simply couldn’t seem to reach him.
It was bizarre and utterly deflating. I remembered my mother’s advice about confronting Ahmed about his behaviour. There was no peace to disrupt now, nothing to lose, so I began to question him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Stop bothering me.”
“What could I do to make things better?”
“You don’t deserve anything better.”
“Why don’t you love me anymore?”
“You don’t deserve to be loved.”
Each time I was rebuffed, I retreated until desperation pushed me to beg him once again for answers.
* * *
One evening his parents went to a dinner party without us. We finally had a night alone. If we could just spend a few hours together, I thought—as we had in Indianapolis, as we had when Amma was away—we might build a little bridge back to our happy marriage.
Ahmed was in the den. I picked up Aisha and walked into the room. He didn’t move. “Ahmed, maybe after I put Aisha to bed, we could watch a movie together. Or maybe just have a cup of tea and talk?”
“Leave me alone, haramzadi.” He had called me “bastard woman.”
I wasn’t going to hide my distress this time. “Why are you doing this, Ahmed?” I was trying not to cry. “You never used to be like this. Don’t you remember our good times together?”
I put Aisha on the floor, crossed the room and knelt at his feet. I wasn’t able to stop my tears.
“Stop being so dramatic,” he snarled.
I reached out and took his hand. “Please talk to me,” I pleaded. “Don’t do this.”
He turned to look at me, his face a picture of hostility. Then he shifted his body towards me. “I told you to get lost!” he shouted. “Get out of my life.”
With that he kicked me in the chest, knocking me over.
I screamed out, not from pain but from shock. I scrambled up, grabbed Aisha, and raced up to my bedroom. Once there, I put her on the bed, then dropped down myself. Through my sobs, I heard the front door slam. Ahmed had left the house. He would not be coming to see if I was hurt; he would not be apologizing.
Aisha crawled over to me and put her chubby little hand on my face. She was trying to get me to play with her. I was too absorbed in my own grief to lift my head. I imagined packing up a few things for Aisha and me, calling a cab and escaping—but to where? The only people I knew in Canada were friends of Ahmed or his parents. Certainly none of them would take me in. I imagined a hotel and plane ticke
ts to Pakistan. But who was I kidding? I didn’t even have enough money to pay for the imaginary cab.
There was no way out. My eyes were closed, but I could see walls closing in on me, my life narrowing to a small dark space. Everything was draining from me—hope, joy, light itself.
I had to do something. I sat up, pulled Aisha into my arms and moved off the bed. Placing her on the floor, I got my prayer mat from the cupboard, unrolled it and knelt to pray. But instead of asking for Allah’s forgiveness, I asked for his mercy. Please end my life, Allah, I prayed. That would be a mercy. No one needed me in the world. Amma, Abba and Ahmed would give Aisha all the love she needed. They could hire someone to help them take care of her.
I wanted to be released. I didn’t want anymore heartache or disappointment or despair. I didn’t want the future that lay before me.
Holding my hands in front of me, lowering my forehead to the floor, I continued to beseech Allah as Aisha crawled around me. Whenever I lifted my head, she nudged herself under my praying hands. When I lowered it again, she wrapped her little arms around my neck. She touched my hair and stroked my cheeks. As she did, I began to realize that she wasn’t asking me to play with her anymore.
She was comforting me.
I sat up and looked at her. “Mamamama,” she burbled, crawling into my lap.
I pulled her to my chest, rocking her and kissing her soft curls as my tears dried. Then I got up and carried her to the bed.
With Aisha lying quietly in my arms, I thanked Allah—and I thanked Aisha. She had reminded me that I was not alone. And that she was my reason to live.
Before I knew it, sleep had stolen over both of us. We didn’t wake until dawn.
* * *
I had imagined the move to the big house might give Ahmed and me the privacy we needed. I had imagined if we could take advantage of time alone, we might find ourselves again. But I had been shown the folly of these small hopes. Perhaps, I thought now, if I could just manage to be a better wife, the kind of wife Amma expects me to be, I could bring my happy marriage back. And so, to be a good wife, I gave myself over to the world that Amma fashioned for me. I got up early to make Ahmed his lunch and then went back to bed for several hours. Amma didn’t approve, but she allowed me this small indulgence. During the day, I took care of Aisha and did housework or helped Amma with the cooking. When the chores were done, Amma and I would play endless rounds of cards, watch her favourite Indian soap operas or play with Aisha.
Ahmed would come home for supper and then most evenings go out again with his friends until the early morning hours. I would clean the kitchen and then put Aisha to bed. As soon as she was asleep and Amma had retired for the night, I’d go into my room, pull out my math books and turn on a small CD player I’d convinced Ahmed to buy me. Listening to music, I escaped into the safety of homework, just as I had in Ruwais. Sometimes, I took a little break by standing in front of my mirror, imagining myself on a stage. I would hold my hand out in front me, smiling as some gowned phantom placed a university diploma in my outstretched palm. Often I embellished this wistful pantomime with a little acceptance speech, smiling at myself in the mirror as I practised it. I knew it might be easier not to entertain this kind of fanciful hope, but other than the intervals I spent playing with Aisha, this time of homework and daydreaming was the best part of my day. And then the whole routine would start again in the morning.
* * *
For days and days, the only adult I talked with was Amma. Mostly I listened to her chat about her friends or nodded at her observations about dinner party menus or home decor. The soap operas gave us something we could both talk about—we dissected the plot lines and characters endlessly. But every once in a while, Amma led the conversation into more personal territory—like my obvious unhappiness.
One evening, we sat playing rummy at the kitchen table. Midway through the game, she put her cards on the table and looked at me kindly. “Why are you so sad, Samra?”
Ahmed had thundered out of the house, enraged once again by my offer to bring him tea after supper.
Her gentle tone was seductive. I had not forgotten what had happened the first time we’d had a heart-to-heart talk, but somehow I felt this time I might be able to trust her. The balance of power had shifted so definitively that it was hard to imagine why she would want to betray me now.
I told her that I didn’t know why Ahmed was always so mad at me. I told her all the names he called me—the ones he hadn’t yet said in her presence. I hinted at some of his physical actions.
She leaned over to give me a hug.
“Just be patient,” she said. “Husbands get nicer as they get older.”
She told me how difficult it had been for her in the early days of her arranged marriage. She had been just fourteen and had immediately moved in with Abba’s mother and sisters. Apparently, all these women delighted in picking on her. And her husband never said a word when they pushed and slapped her. She also told me of Abba’s slavish devotion to his mother. Once they moved to Kuwait, he had spent all his money buying things to send back to his family in Pakistan, leaving nothing for his own wife and children. I felt for her, but in those two tales I saw a truth that Amma never acknowledged. The time with her in-laws had been brief; she and Abba had spent the bulk of their marriage living on their own.
While Amma seemed to be genuinely sympathetic, she also took the opportunity to remind me of my place. “It’s a woman’s duty to stay quiet,” she told me. “You mustn’t tell anyone, not even your parents or sisters, about what goes on in your marriage. This is our business, not theirs. I will talk to Ahmed. His father will talk to him.”
I nodded, hoping that this might happen—and that it might help.
“But don’t forget,” Amma continued, “it is perfectly permissible in Islam for a man to hit his wife. It’s written in the Koran. And other women have it much worse than you do, but they still stay. It is a good wife’s duty to make things better. After all, you need to keep your family together. If you were ever to leave, the government would give Aisha to Ahmed since you have no education and no money.”
Amma’s words made me feel queasy. Ever since Ahmed kicked me, I had been fantasizing about making a daring escape: tying my bedsheets together and shinnying down from my bedroom window. Rapunzel with a baby strapped to her back. Amma’s words reminded me how silly those thoughts were. And dangerous. Ahmed was sponsoring me, and although Aisha was a citizen I was not. If I left the country, he could come and get Aisha, and I would never get her back. And even if I stayed in Canada, Amma was telling me, I might lose my daughter. She was right. I needed to focus on keeping my family together. After all, the kick had hardly hurt. It was like the occasional slaps my father gave my mother. These small smacks didn’t mean we were being beaten.
As I took our teacups to the sink, I reminded myself that this family life was not entirely miserable. It meant I was raising Aisha in a comfortable home, with people who loved her.
And they did adore her. As Aisha’s personality began to blossom, Amma and Ahmed became more and more attentive. Amma spent hours knitting and sewing little outfits for her granddaughter, and loved to bounce Aisha on her lap, chatting with her and singing songs. Ahmed would sit on the floor and play games with Aisha. And he took hundreds and hundreds of photos. I was enormously comforted that at least everyone was intent on making my little girl happy.
* * *
When the warm weather of spring arrived, I started to take Aisha into the backyard to play. After months of confinement, this small patch of grass was a veritable oasis. Neighbours’ yards bounded two sides of ours, but on the third side was a public walkway, separated from our lawn only by a chain-link fence. The occasional sight of people walking back and forth made me feel a little more involved in the world again. I often found myself thinking about where they might be going and how they might be spending their day.
But if Ahmed was home, I had to be careful how much time I spent outside.
He seemed to hate the idea that people might see me. Before his parents arrived, he had wanted me to wear the hijab just to English class, the only time I wasn’t in his company. Now he insisted I wear it wherever I went, including the backyard. He was clearly bothered that our next-door neighbours or people on the walkway might catch a glimpse of my uncovered hair. (Ahmed and his parents occasionally exchanged snippets of conversation with the people next door but I had never been introduced, and Ahmed made it clear he didn’t want me to talk with them, ever.)
And then one day the full force of his new possessiveness hit me.
Amma, Ahmed and I had gone to the mall to look for party decorations and loot-bag items for Aisha’s first birthday—invitations had already gone out to Amma and Abba’s friends and their children and grandchildren, along with a few of Ahmed’s friends and their families. As I pushed a shopping cart down the aisle of the dollar store, Ahmed’s hand suddenly gripped my elbow. I stopped and turned to him. His mouth twisted with rage.
“Bitch, what’s the point of wearing a hijab if you can’t keep your hair covered properly?”
I reached up and touched my face. A tendril of hair had escaped my scarf.
“If you want to be a randi, why not sit out on the street?”
I knew the term randi—whore—but in Urdu it is a swear word of such ferocity and condemnation that I had never before heard anyone actually apply it to another person. Tears welled up in my eyes.
“Don’t you dare do your drama here,” Ahmed said. His tone was threatening.
I shoved the hair back under my scarf and walked shakily to the next aisle, where his mother, her hair uncovered as always, was lifting up a glittery multicoloured banner: Happy Birthday.
“We should get this,” Amma said to me.
“Yes,” I replied, trying to keep the tremor from my voice. All I wanted to do was go home.