The Shaytan Bride

by The Shaytan Bride (retail) (epub)

  When I looked back at Nabila and Maryam, I realized they were now only two inches away. Their hands on their hips, they stood there scanning me.

  “Maryam, can I ask you something?” I lowered my tone, which was already soft to begin with. I ushered her back to the bed where I sat her down. “I believe you have a phone.”

  “Yes,” Maryam replied. “Why?”

  The maid was now putting up the mosquito net tent, tucking in its ends under the bed mattress.

  “Girls, come eat!” Sweety Khala shouted from the kitchen.

  “Can I use it?” I asked. “Just once, tonight?”

  “I’m not allowed to,” Maryam answered. She snuck a look at Nabila, who was sprawled out on the bed.

  “If you let me use your phone, I’ll let you have absolutely everything in my makeup bag.”

  To which both Nabila and Maryam jerked up.

  “Really?” Nabila asked. She was swaying her arms around as if to draw away the mosquitoes. The mosquito net almost came down.

  “Yes, I promise you.”

  “Eh, Maryam, just give it to her.” Nabila gestured to Maryam, clapping her hands.

  Maryam squinted. “Okay, but no one here can back bite and tell anyone that I did this.” She pointed at me, Nabila, and the maid who was now picking up Maryam’s dresses from the floor.

  We all said promise at the same time, other than the maid.

  “Eh, girl,” Maryam yelled at the maid. “Will you tell?”

  The maid shook her head. Her bemused eyes suggested she had no idea what on earth we were talking about , but nonetheless she’d be loyal.

  “Shh, keep your voice down,” I told Maryam. “Also, she is harmless. Let’s not yell unnecessarily. Thank you so much. And if you ever visit Canada, you can have every single makeup product I own.”

  Maryam grinned.

  Later that night, when everyone was asleep, I texted Bhav. The date on the phone read September 27, 2005 — it had been about two months since I last saw him. In my text, I told him that I still hoped he could come to Dhaka to get me. I asked him also to call Mrs. Seidu, who I thought could perhaps help by contacting Abbu and having a talk with him. I didn’t have her number, so I asked Bhav to track it down. Told him to not text back after I myself stopped texting, for I was still being monitored and the stakes of being found out were far too high. I told Bhav I loved him. That I was scared. That I wasn’t exactly ready to give up yet. I would find a way that had the least amount of damage and pain for everyone involved.

  I erased all my texts.

  The next morning Sweety Khala found out that I had used the phone. Someone must have told her. But she couldn’t retrieve any messages, so she had nothing to tell Boro Mama. When she asked me, I remained quiet. I never found out who had squealed.

  Atyanta Cene Aparicita Byakti / Familiar Stranger

  There was a caramel-skinned lizard with bulging black eyes watching me record what I was observing as I sat on the cement bathroom floor, the door locked and my back against it. My journal was in my lap with its tattered edges, a slender silver pen between my thumb and index finger.

  I was startled by a series of knocks — anxious and demanding — so I hid my journal under my fuchsia orna. When I opened the door, Boro Mama stood there with a smirk on his face.

  “Please get dressed,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

  “Where? Where are we going?” In my mind I was shouting as I asked the question, but in reality, I was merely whispering. Only a few days before I last texted Bhav, some cousins shared rumblings that my family would consider potentially moving back to Dhaka if I remained so rebellious. Only a few days after I last texted Bhav, I learned that Boro Mama was considering leaving me in a village if I didn’t acquiesce sooner rather than later.

  “I’m taking you to meet someone,” Boro Mama revealed.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “A relative,” Boro Mama said, clearing his throat.

  I imagined natural light wrapping my body in a sweet caress. My spine — twisted from sitting for prolonged periods of time in the storage closet, hunched over my knees and frequently immobile — unwinding itself at the call of the sun. The sun’s rays tracing my face. I thought also about the forced smiles and pleasantries, which required willpower that I was still trying to reserve for my escape.

  So I asked, “Can I just stay here? I’m not well.”

  “Get dressed,” Boro Mama replied, ignoring my question. “Bilkis, can you find her a proper outfit?”

  Perhaps I could have protested further, but I didn’t.

  Boro Mama had multiple cars, but the one I remember taking was a black Jeep. As I stepped outside of the house the flying dust grains in the air hit my face, and it was a sort of reminder that I was indeed still alive. The light rays I craved smothered me all at once. I squinted at the surrounding buildings, which seemed to twirl, and I peeked through the front gate to see the hot-pink roofs of tent stalls, where snacks and cigarettes were being sold. I battled to keep my body upright and not fall unconscious. I didn’t even notice the driver, who appeared at my side and then helped me up into the Jeep. The front gates opened, and we were on our way. I looked out the Jeep’s windows, desperate to climb out. Not to run away exactly, for there was nowhere to run. To go for a walk. On my own. Alone. Free.

  The restaurant we arrived at was an upgraded Pizza Pizza. At the entrance were big glass doors. Looking through them, I saw women with kohl-lined eyes, peach cheeks, bright lipstick. I touched my own face; I had forgotten the feeling of painting my lips or nails, tracing a wing at the end of my eyelids.

  The glass doors were opened by two service men, who gestured for us to enter. On the other side a man was waiting. My eyes moved to him immediately. He was handsome. Tall. Something about his body language indicated he was gentle, open, kind. He was ten inches taller than me, rather soft-featured, wearing a light-blue collared shirt, black dress pants, and shiny black dress shoes. His hair was combed back, not pretentiously, just casually, slightly tousled. On his face, a semi-smile, high cheekbones, long eyelashes that flickered like a burning candle on a bedside dresser while pages of a good book are turned.

  Who is he? I wondered, but not enough to pay attention further. I was already tired and a little overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds I was absorbing in one day.

  Boro Mama opened his arms as if to invite the man in for a hug.

  “Meet Shoaib,” he said, turning to me.

  “As-salam alaykum,” Shoaib said to me in a deep, sonorous voice.

  “Wa alaikum salam,” I muttered.

  The heels of the men’s polished dress shoes clacked on the marble tiles. I looked around and noticed that in the upgraded Pizza Pizza, people ate pizza with cutlery, in their finest attire, while being eagerly attended to by servers with a time-honed perceptiveness. It was so different from what I’d seen just moments ago while sitting in the Jeep: slums upon slums and skinny children asking for money. The striking contrast between the rich and the poor left me with a somersaulting stomach.

  As I waded through these reflections, I noticed in my periphery that Shoaib kept occasionally turning his face toward me, catching my eyes momentarily, then looking down, then back up at Boro Mama again.

  So, I focused my attention on him, how his voice was genial, his shoulders leaning, his grin appeasing, as if he was politely trying to make a space big enough for Boro Mama’s grand ideas so that he could speak at length. Although we said not much to each other, I deduced that Shoaib had about him a certain modesty. A certain tact that differed from all the other boys my age, who were careless with their words and far too influenced by each other; of no distinction or ability to stand apart on one’s own. Shoaib was most likely a handful of years older than I, and moved with an easy gracefulness as if he never thought about where he was going but was always content when he arrived. This began to feel comforting. I admired it almost, that kind of uncomplicated enlightenment. All this I deduced without kn
owing anything about him.

  I continued watching Boro Mama and Shoaib converse but didn’t follow the conversation myself. I didn’t hold onto any detail, just remembered the impression Shoaib had left and, of course, the absurdity of the restaurant I was in. I got the sense we weren’t staying for long, as we hadn’t taken a seat.

  So, I stood there, my heels clicking nervously against the floor as the achromatic uniforms of the servers blended into the glittery saris of women and the short shiny skirts made of leather, worn by the young well-off girls — most likely from the rich, liberal part of the city, called Gulshan. The cackling at the tables, once whispers, had now increased tenfold, and deciphering the threads of logic in all the conversation around me left me utterly exhausted.

  As Boro Mama and Shoaib continued talking with each other, a thought sauntered into my mind: I could get up and just run. In my fantasy of the escape, I stood up, took off my pointy-heeled sandals, held them in my hands, and then mustered all my strength to shout, “Burn, you lousy liars!” I took a hard look at the faces of Boro Mama and Shoaib. The silver trays in the hands of the servers fell with ringing clangs. The forks hit the plates, the plates shattering into sharp triangles that broke into smaller pieces as I ran. The heavy earrings slapped against the faces of the rich ladies. A piece of pizza crust fell out of a woman’s mouth, another fainted, another said, “Why I never,” in a British accent for some reason, and the bald man at the corner table, shocked to see me bolting past him, began to choke on the knife in his hands, pushing his belly into the table, causing the knife to shoot out of his throat and into Boro Mama’s heart.

  “Well, we will talk again, Inshallah,” Boro Mama said to Shoaib. My escape fantasy dissipated. He said goodbye to Shoaib, who said his salam to me and left.

  Boro Mama then escorted me to his Jeep. I climbed into the back seat, trying to remember how it felt in my imagination just a minute before, to leave. Like an expanding balloon in my chest lifting me up, a lightness. During the ride back to his home, I said not much, just wringed my hands wondering what the purpose of the visit had been and what could unfold.

  On the way from the Jeep to the front doors, I straggled behind Boro Mama. I noticed a slight bounce in the way he moved.

  Once inside, I scurried off to the bedroom, where I was surprised to find Ammu, my Mami, and my two other Khalas, Sweety and Gollapi, gathered.

  “How was your meeting?” Sweety Khala asked.

  I said nothing, just continued to the almari to find something else to wear.

  The ladies left me alone to change. I saw the outlines of their figures on the other side of the bedroom’s sliding door. It seemed they were chatting with Boro Mama, and although I was curious what about, I remained focused on changing.

  Soon after, Bilkis knocked on the door to inform me that lunch was being prepared. Having meals together was a tradition followed strictly in Boro Mama’s home.

  Before I could leave the room, however, Nani, Mami, and my two Khalas walked hastily past Bilkis, pushing her aside and eyeing me with curious anticipation. They asked me directly and while smiling, “What did you think of the man you met today?”

  “I don’t know …” I answered earnestly. “I didn’t pay attention.”

  “Wasn’t he so polite? Well mannered?” Gollapi Khala asked.

  By now, the ladies had guided me to the bed. I felt my shoulders knot as they circled around me. I sighed, looking at Gollapi Khala’s serious face. She usually had her hair back in a bun, which brought further attention to the beauty mark underneath her bottom lip that was just like the one I myself had. She was far more reserved than Sweety Khala, but no less fierce.

  To her question, I answered, “He seems shy, but in a good way.” I wasn’t sure what they were trying to get at.

  My response brought a glow about everyone’s face, and I thought I should have perhaps bit my tongue.

  “How am I related to him?” I asked.

  Ammu and Boro Mama then walked in and, upon seeing us all on the bed, he stated “I’d like to speak with her alone,” with a sternness that resisted questioning.

  The women exchanged glances, got up, and made their way out of the room. When they left, he closed the sliding door, and took a few steps toward me.

  “What did you think of the man you met today?” he asked, squinting his eyes just a bit. I was so tired from earlier that I just nodded.

  He then went on to lay out some facts he thought it important for me to know: that Shoaib was an only child and therefore prized, that he was the head of a well-known company and therefore hardworking, that he tended to many family responsibilities, including taking care of his father, who wasn’t well, and therefore he was compassionate and responsible, and, finally, that others had known him to be rather romantic. Also, he’d already expressed his fondness of me.

  “I can tell,” Shoaib had said, apparently, “that she is the kind of woman I’ve been waiting for my whole life.”

  Boro Mama’s hardened expression broke into a self-satisfied smirk as he told me these things, then threw his arms into the air. “Shoaib is a good man.”

  I knew what was going on.

  “How am I related to him?” I asked.

  “You’re not related,” Boro Mama finally answered.

  An urge to throw up.

  “I wanted you to meet him because I do believe that he would be a great partner for you,” he said.

  My face and shoulders drooped as I responded. “But I told you about Bhav. He is the one.”

  I heard Boro Mama grit his teeth. To my repeated words he repeated, “Okay, let it be for now, but I do want you to think about it.” We were still going in circles.

  I hadn’t spoken to Abbu for weeks. When we finally spoke, it was only for a couple of minutes. I wondered if he knew the truth or if they’d twisted everything I said. Boro Mama stood over me as I mumbled to Abbu, my voice quavering and body trembling.

  “They …” I tried to tell him that each day I was sinking more and more into a deep blankness that I imagined as a patch of wet sand at the bottom of my brain; the harder I fought, the more buried I became, until I was fully submerged in what can only be described as a radical emptiness.

  But I couldn’t explain as clearly as I wanted, and he responded, “Being there will be good for you. Have you been watching the news? How they’ve invaded Iraq? The things people are saying about Muslims here? It’s really a terrible thing. People are dying. Stay there and learn a little more about who you are and where you came from.”

  And I thought, There is still some sort of misunderstanding.

  Soon, words of persuasion became injuries on my physical body. Tightened grips and the force of hard surfaces against my skin, harm by the same person I had once considered a friend. I was learning, as a nineteen-year-old, what I could have never ever fathomed: that harm wasn’t just at the hands of strangers, but family, friends, close colleagues, acquaintances, lovers. This couldn’t keep on forever. Something had to break.

  I had been waiting for Shahzad all afternoon, but it seemed he had been at school longer than usual. I’d convinced him the day before to let me use his cellphone just one more time. He had been avoiding me — I could tell because he no longer played cricket at his usual spot, and he would hardly look me in the eye or speak to me for longer than a minute. I couldn’t tell if it was because he couldn’t tolerate what he was seeing or if he just feared for his own well-being, the whip of his father’s belt. But that day I had found him alone and pleaded to use his phone, almost falling to my knees, and I suppose it was the healing scar on my forehead that might have changed his mind. He agreed to let me use his cellphone again.

  So, I waited. Where was he? I needed to tell Bhav that things were getting even worse, and it was time to take action — but exactly what kind of action I still wasn’t sure. I wouldn’t budge on my duty to my parents, given everything I’d seen them sacrifice to give me an abundant future. I had already violated my loyal
ty to them by continually choosing Bhav. To leave drastically would only hurt them in a worse way, potentially breaking them psychologically, or even spiritually.

  Shahzad finally ambled in. I saw he was carrying more books in his hands than usual. I turned my neck to the left then right, and saw that no one was around other than the driver who had escorted Shahzad in. The driver, whose properness reminded me of men on Bay Street in Toronto’s financial district, nodded to me and Shahzad then left.

  I ran to Shahzad. “Will you still help me?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, avoiding eye contact. “But after this, never again. My dad scolded me yesterday, asking if I had released any information to you or if you’d asked me anything. I think he’s catching on.”

  “Okay,” I said, trembling slightly. Bilkis told me the other day that she had heard some Khalas telling Ammu they would sever their relationships with her if I did not do what I was told, because I was a terrible influence on their daughters and I was creating too much mayhem and distress. This threat of estrangement was enough to worsen Ammu’s breathing at night and prevent her sleep. I thought then how lonely Ammu and Abbu sometimes seemed in Canada, but when they called their relatives here in Dhaka they were always giddy and eager to plan the days of their future. I did not want to take this away from them.

  Shahzad pulled out the phone and I took it from his hands. With that, I ran to the bathroom, the one with the perceptive lizard who witnessed everything that went on within those four walls, and I typed away. I told Bhav the truth. Then I gave Shahzad his phone back right away and thanked him.