The Shaytan Bride

by The Shaytan Bride (retail) (epub)

  I turned the dial with one hand, the other holding up the hefty handset.

  “Hello?” Bhav answered.

  “It’s me,” I whispered.

  “Where are you? I’ve been worried. I thought you’d get back to —”

  “I don’t have much time,” I interrupted.

  I heard footsteps.

  I crouched down with the handset, my nose at the edge of the bed next to the night table. What Boro Mama would do if he caught me.

  The footsteps subsided. I got up again.

  “I — I am stuck here, with no way out. I can’t come back unless I marry this man, Shoaib. If I don’t say yes, then I might be dropped off somewhere in a village. All I need you to know —” My words tumbled out, each letter almost knocking the one before it, like bowling balls.

  “What?” Bhav asked. “This will all blow over. They must be pulling your leg. They can’t leave you in a … a … village.” In the background somebody opened a can of soda, as if Bhav had just answered a normal phone call.

  I twirled the phone cord between my left fingers, looking around the room. I could feel a hard bump along my neck; my tendons protruding as if trying to walk out of my skin.

  “I need you to believe me, please. At first, I didn’t believe it, either, but a part of me tells me this is more possible than not,” I told him.

  Two or three seconds passed while I grit my teeth. One more and I would’ve slammed the handset down.

  “I’ll call the police. I’ll call —” Bhav stated.

  “No. You don’t do anything like that. Promise me that you won’t,” I pleaded.

  “Why not? Are you hearing yourself?” Bhav asked. “You really don’t sound like yourself. Are you physically okay?”

  The footsteps were getting louder. I heard Mami scold a maid.

  “I’m okay. The wedding has been pushed up. It will now be on October thirty-first.”

  “Wedding? What? There’s already a wedding? Wait. Why do you have to get married on Halloween? Listen,” Bhav said, “this goat herder they are setting you up with probably just wants a green card.”

  I tugged the cord so tightly the phone almost toppled over the edge of the table. It wasn’t as if my family had set me up with just any Muslim man from Bangladesh. They weren’t idiots. I heard some pots fall in the nearby kitchen. I swivelled my body to the wall thinking the maids were going to pass by.

  I did this all while telling Bhav, “Shoaib is a really kind man. Why would you say that?” My voice was rising.

  I didn’t expect myself to be so suddenly incensed.

  His breaths thinned out and I thought I heard him swear.

  “Shoaib? You don’t sound like yourself. You can’t get married. Please don’t. You’re not in your right mind.”

  I wanted to tell him then about all the things I had seen, in both waking life and my dreams. I wanted to tell him that some things were making sense and others not, that I was now questioning where I was and had been before, as if I was pulling myself from the inside out to inspect more thoroughly my origin, how this all started. Why am I here? Maybe I hadn’t been in my right mind my whole time in Canada — could that be possible?

  “I only have maybe thirty more seconds. I can’t risk it. If anyone finds out, I’ll have to face the consequences.”

  “I’m going to call the High Commission of Canada just to ask what happens if …”

  “No,” I warned him. “I don’t want to hurt anyone here. Please don’t.”

  “And what about hurting me? Or yourself?”

  Through Boro Mama’s bedroom window, the sky appeared ashy like crushed bones.

  “I still love you,” I said. “Don’t forget.”

  I put the handset down. Footsteps. Someone walked in. I turned around, a hurried swivel that threw me off balance. It was Bilkis in a frilly russet frock, a large cockroach in her hand. “The boys,” she cried. “They planted this in my things.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said, letting out a drawn-out sigh of relief, perhaps confusing her a little, as she continued to peer at me with her large brown eyes.

  “Let’s go. Let’s go over there,” I said. I tapped her on the back. Ushered her out of the room. Held her other hand as I took her to where I was staying.

  I sat her on my bed. “They’re just silly boys who love to pull pranks. The other day, the little one was tugging on my skirt, trying to pull it off me. He chased me all over the house! It’s probably just the age. They want to tease girls.”

  I told her maybe we could put the cockroaches in glass jars. A suggestion we both giggled at.

  After Bilkis left, I pondered the exchange Bhav and I had. Why had I really called him? To give him an update or get his help? I felt guilty about what I had done and how my loyalty was continuing to split. If I had been able to remain on the phone for longer, I would have told Bhav, I was sure, that I was sorry I couldn’t talk to him for longer. I had been desperate to call him but was starting to feel as if I had nothing more to say. His voice had been a little muffled, a little distant. How was he keeping? I wondered about his mother. How was her health? And what about his friends? It was right what he had observed: that I was changing. It had been almost four months.

  The next day Sweety Khala, Gollapi Khala, and Ammu dragged me to the jewellery store in an effort to seduce me with gold, diamonds, and pearls, to get me to change my mind and just marry Shoaib. Regardless of whether or not I’d acquiesce, they’d still make the purchase, for they were planning a wedding to which I had not said yes.

  In the store, they each pointed to various earrings, necklaces, tikkas, and bangles hanging on the walls. The patient shopkeeper brought them all down and spread them across the glass counter. Sweety Khala picked up the pair of three-layered gold jhumkis and pushed the sharp end of one through the hole in my ear.

  “Ouch,” I said.

  “Mashallah,” she said.

  Then Gollapi Khala picked up a matching gold ratan chur, and put my wrist through it.

  “Beautiful,” she said.

  Ammu and my Khalas continued layering me, and when I caught my reflection in the store mirror I thought, Mughal royalty.

  “Gold brings good fortune,” Gollapi Khala said. She picked up a large gold nose ring and placed it against my nose. “And this nath, for example, helps a woman give birth.”

  I examined myself in the mirror. I was totally draped in gold from head to toe.

  I jerked back and shook my head. “No.”

  My Khalas ordered the storekeeper to package the purchased jewellery in the red velvet boxes, which they placed securely in their purses. We squeezed through the crowds with pickpockets, the ones who walked with arms hidden or stretched, looking to steal purses or grope breasts.

  We got onto the main road, climbed onto the green-and-yellow scooter, and drove off.

  When we arrived at Boro Mama’s house and entered the bedroom, we found the bed covered in boxes and boxes of presents.

  “These are from Shoaib’s family,” Boro Mama said, when he saw us staggering in. “They’ve really given a lot. I hope that you’ll confirm that you agree to the wedding.”

  I looked at all the gifts on the bed — the shirts, lace lingerie, shining watches, and six or more silk, katan, and cotton saris.

  Boro Mama presented me with a small cardboard box. “Another gift from Shoaib. It’s a phone. He would like to get to know you better.”

  I stared at the phone in his hands. I could use it to get out, but would I, anyway?

  “You haven’t been arguing, you’ve been more receptive. I think you may actually be coming to your senses.” Boro Mama smiled, then handed me the cardboard box. “I am going to trust you and give this to you. You can use it, but only to contact Shoaib. Can I trust you? Tell me, will you misuse this?”

  I examined the cardboard box, then took it.

  Shoaib called me later that evening to say he’d purchased a ring. “I hope you like the diamond. An elegant one,
like you.”

  I was quiet.

  “What about all the gifts? Are they to your liking?” Shoaib asked.

  I slid my fingers over the silky camisole spread out on the bed. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself on the night of the impending wedding. Behind closed doors, the delicate bed and hard floor covered in thick, velvet petals of a thousand red roses. My hennaed hands adorned in diamond kundan rings sinking into the pillow. A candle burning, bringing into perspective Shoaib’s dim eyes and the sharp line from his ear to his lip. Shoaib and I sitting on the edge of the bed, considering the possibilities of becoming each other’s beloved. Shoaib leaning in his sweet, beautiful face, his expression full of love directed toward me, and I, compelled toward him, in my purest heart and unambiguous mind and body so hot and electric — until, suddenly, a vision of Bhav.

  Shoaib and I were at Dhanmondi Lake. The pathways were lined with young lovers. In their hands, they held cones made of newspaper that were filled with salted peanuts from nearby vendors. The couples who were less shy held hands. A little boy galloped past us with a purple kite. The breeze pushed against our cheeks tenderly. It lifted my red orna in the air, as if to give a sign.

  I thought, This has gone too far. I would tell Shoaib then that I had been coerced, despite what revealing this would do to Boro Mama’s reputation. There was no other way. I would also tell him about Bhav. This was the least I could do with whatever agency I had or integrity I could practise.

  “I have something to say.” I stopped in the middle of our stroll.

  Shoaib leaned in, and I told him everything that had happened since I had stepped off the plane. A girl with pigtails hopscotched nearby. A man with a glossy bald head pulled the strings of his guitar.

  Shoaib strolled out a few metres ahead of me then turned back with open arms and said, “Well, I don’t know what to say. What is happening to you isn’t right. I had no idea. I won’t agree to anything that you’ve been forced to do. I will leave it up to you.”

  When I caught up to him, I saw that his shoulders were caving in a little more than usual. His voice became faint. The wind sighed. The purple kite above our heads deflated, fell into the muddy lake. A few of the passersby ran to the edge of the water and pointed at the kite. As the folks debated the most effective way to retrieve it, Shoaib and I left the commotion, heading toward the gate.

  “Shoaib is conflicted about the wedding,” Boro Mama snarled at me. “What the hell did you say?”

  I replied, “I had to tell him the truth. I felt bad for him. He needed to know the entirety of how I felt.”

  Boro Mama’s eyes seethed. “How shameless could you be?”

  If I feel shame, it should be in front of Allah, not these other people, and not you. It’s individual. My shame is not a tool, I thought, to be used by other people.

  I could tell he was upset that I was continuing to question the situation, but in Islam there was such a thing as blameworthy modesty. Being meek wasn’t encouraged when it came to calling out tyranny or injustice, even in religion.

  “Well then,” he continued. “Your wedding date has been set. It’s too late.”

  I learned that my henna patterns had already been chosen, my wedding sari ordered. Ammu had been examining the jewellery patterns of the gold received from Shoaib’s family. The wedding invitations had been crafted on special handmade paper, delivered to the guests. The caterers had been chosen, as had the decorations and the flowers.

  And then the weight drilled me into the earth. It was a lot of people. It would be a scandal if I left.

  ∞

  Boro Mama, along with everyone else, had been busy preparing for the wedding. By now, I had quietened again, and therefore they must have assumed I was fine. I had not heard from or seen Shoaib since I told him the truth. It seemed he was still going along with the wedding because the frenetic wedding activities had not stopped.

  It was all so strange.

  I needed to tell Bhav about the developments so he at least knew what was happening, and I decided I’d use the phone Shoaib had given me to do it. I’d have to figure out how to get it to make long-distance calls. Boro Mama must have forgotten about the phone, for he hadn’t mentioned it. The rules of the phone were that it stayed with Nani for the most part, locked up in her almari, the key tied to the tail end of her white sari. She would only give it to me if I had a call planned with Shoaib, and oftentimes the calls would be supervised. My relatives would usually gather around in excitement, offering suggestions for how to flirt. How strange it was that this happened, as if the wedding weren’t a lie or that I trusted them. After any of these calls, I’d have to return the phone.

  One evening I told Nani, “Nani, I haven’t heard from Shoaib for some time. I need to know how he is finding the wedding planning.”

  Nani was preoccupied, spreading slaked lime on her betel leaf, which she pulled out from her paan dan silverware. “Okay, take the key.”

  After removing the key from her sari anchal I dashed to the almari, but with contained enthusiasm as I didn’t want Nani to get too suspicious. The almari used to remain open but now it was always locked. I opened the almari door and raised myself on my toes, brought my arms over my head to retrieve the phone hiding under some Kashmir shawls made of shahtoosh wool. Small black flip phone. I returned the key to Nani and then plopped onto the bed, spreading a bright red-and-orange kantha quilt over my head. This quilt had been handstitched by Bengali women with little money, looking to feed their families. They had repurposed discarded scraps of cloth into something beautiful and with a practical purpose.

  Nani chortled, shoved a paan in her mouth, then began rearranging her aesthetic paan display. Under the kantha quilt, I fiddled with the phone, trying to determine whether it was or was not capable of outgoing or incoming international calls. I found out that it wasn’t. However, it seemed I could send texts to Canada.

  I texted Bhav for the first time using this phone and said something like, “I told Shoaib everything. It is still unsettled.”

  Before I received his reply, I saw that Shoaib had texted.

  “Thanks for being honest with me. I thought about it, and I still want to marry you, if you change your mind.”

  So it seemed he had known that Boro Mama was still proceeding with the plans and he didn’t have any objection. I wondered what Boro Mama’s reply had been when Shoaib told him he knew the pressure I was under.

  I thought then, Do I even know Shoaib at all? I was hiding under the kantha quilt in the dark, the phone light illuminating my face. Was I supposed to take Shoaib’s inability to see the coercion in this situation as a grand romantic gesture? That he would love me despite my many shortcomings including my heart belonging to another man? Why was he so eager to be with me specifically? I wondered if he, too, had received mixed messages about consent while growing up. Still, I was upset that he was making it harder, because it took strength to say no and I would have to say no to him again and again, like the chorus of a pop song destroyed by its own popularity.

  There was confusion.

  And then I got Bhav’s text, which said, “Let me call the High Commission of Canada, please. You don’t have time. You could be taken the next day.”

  Before receiving Shoaib’s text and then Bhav’s reply, there was a vacuum, within which everything moved fast and then remained still. I responded to neither man. I put the phone away.

  How did it feel to not have a father during this very critical time, especially when Abbu had been around for most of my life? What would he do if he were here? They’d kept him far for a reason. Had he stayed far out of respect for the family? Or was it that he couldn’t stand to watch me as the unwilling bride? Was the reason it was so hard to watch out of loyalty to me or the family or Islam? If he couldn’t understand, I’d have to move forward by myself. I was the arbiter of my fate. The question was: Did I believe in myself — that I could handle whatever consequences I’d have to face?

  I d
ecided to go along with the wedding. Yes, that was my decision. It came down to simple utilitarianism: do what results in the greatest good for the greatest number of people. In Islam, this would perhaps translate to decisions that brought most harmony, co-operation over competition at the expense of your own desires. For, as it says in Quranic verse 216 in Surah Al-Baqarah, a statement along the lines of “But it is possible that ye dislike a thing which is good for you, and that ye love a thing which is bad for you. But Allah knoweth and ye know not.” This decision wouldn’t feel so good in the present, but perhaps it would be the most reasonable and rewarding long-term. Otherwise, why else would I be presented with such a situation? To act on my free will or to learn how to better recognize and accept that which was predestined, that which was good for me — what was being asked of me — I could not tell. Perhaps now that I was almost an adult, and no longer a child, I’d have to continue to make more decisions like this, where I’d have to work harder to distinguish what was noble, or pure. For it was in puberty and beyond that we became more susceptible to the Shayṭān’s influence.

  So, I spit out the words, “Yes. Although I truly don’t want to. But I will do it for you.”

  Boro Mama threw his hands in the air, roaring with glee. Everyone else, all my Khalas and Ammu, too, jumped around like firecrackers.

  “There is so much to do!” Ammu exclaimed. “We will dress you up as the most beautiful bride. It is my dream to see you this way.”

  As Ammu wrapped me in her embrace, I had the cold chill of that day when I fell on the Dhaka street as a child, chasing after the rickshaw she was on. The sadness usually preserved for the finality of death and grief. It felt like the confirmation of losing her already, although she believed that she had just gained me.

  The joy in her eyes and the sadness in mine. How did I come from her because she could not feel the tender pain in my tone? Then I remembered that her ideas differed, about how to love me, what was best for me, how we could connect. At least then, at that time, when I was that age.