The Shaytan Bride

by The Shaytan Bride (retail) (epub)

  As everyone went on, making arrangements, ironing out details, I dragged my body to the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I slammed my back against it. Across from me, the lizard watched, amazed.

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?” I asked it. I wished so much for this lizard to talk back, provide a granule of wisdom or a sign. But it just stared. A rush of sorrow made its way through my body. I exhaled deeply to make room for it. I was lonely, despite having satisfied everybody else. I would have to bear with this loneliness, perhaps for a very long time.

  ∞

  I asked Nani to give me the phone Shoaib had given me.

  Sometimes I took this phone and made excuses to leave the room with it. It was then I would send a text to Bhav, which I would delete quickly after. Praying and hoping he wouldn’t reply when the phone was in hands other than mine.

  On the days closer to my wedding, October 31, 2005, I texted Bhav to tell him what was happening and that I was sorry.

  “I asked the High Commission of Canada what they need to get you out of there,” Bhav replied.

  Bhav was still trying. He still had hope, but I had made my decision.

  “Just your consent. I have the number. I can call them. You just give them your consent and they will come get you — if you can provide the address.”

  And then, as much as I didn’t want to revert back to a state of ambivalence, where I chose not to act as a way of resisting and of believing a better resolution would present itself, something inside of me, a small shrill of a voice, compelled me to type the address I had seen on some envelopes on Boro Mama’s study desk.

  I couldn’t see Bhav’s face while I typed, but I imagined his squinting, his faraway look, vision scattered. He had lines on his forehead when he was bothered. For I had betrayed him, hadn’t I? Bhav could never give up on me. Could I give up on him?

  “But listen, they need evidence that you gave your consent to be taken out of there.”

  I stayed silent, just listened.

  “The white people might just see me as the crazy brown-boy stalker who is trying to get back a girlfriend that dumped him,” Bhav continued. “They need to hear from you.”

  I thought about the many women who didn’t even have this option at all. How would anyone know about them? What about the women who had no one to call?

  “Don’t contact them,” I repeated in my texts.

  “I won’t do anything that you don’t want, but I also know you are not completely yourself.”

  “I know,” I replied. My solemn demeanour and my solemn voice, as if I was at a funeral. “I need to think about it again.” There were so many different parts of me now, old ones dying and new ones taking over.

  “Whatever you choose, I’m here for you,” Bhav assured me.

  “They will take me to the beauty parlour on the morning of my wedding to get ready. I will try to call you before they move me from this house. Once they do, there will be no way for me to contact you anymore.”

  “Sumaiya, tell me, what do you want?” Bhav texted me one last time.

  It was as if my head was in the middle of two cymbals. I closed my eyes, then opened them, speaking with a clarity that hurt, “Tell them,” I wrote. “Tell them.”

  The window curtains fluttered.

  “It might be too late, but tell them. Please find a way. Regardless of anything, one thing is for sure. This is not safe, and Allah, Allah would never want this. In my heart, I know it. The way it’s all happening goes against my principles.”

  I fumbled with the phone. Out of breath and head pounding. I hastily erased all our texts before I went to sleep, and I was glad I did, because the next day Boro Mama took the phone from me.

  “It’s better you don’t have this now. You’re getting married, anyway.”

  He marched away, signalling his determination through the ebb of his stride. With him my portal to the world outside. To Canada. To Toronto. Who I’d been about four months ago. Bhav was gone. I was gone.

  Would there be a way out? Would it be too late now?

  From:

  Sent: October 30, 2005, 11:57 PM

  To: DHAKA (G)

  Subject: Please

  This is , I opened a case for Sumaiya Matin, DOB . I don’t know what else I can do, the numbers I gave her are not working, I even tried to forward some messages of sumaiya’s to and it didn’t work. I’m begging you guys to please just go the addresses I provided and talk to her, and then you’ll see. I understand your positions but this is her life, they will kill her if she doesn’t marry. Please I’m begging you guys to just go to the house at noon and talk to her. I can pay you guys to go to that house

  [h]ow much it doesn’t matter to me email me back and I’ll give you my visa number, I don’t care, just please go to that house and talk to her. She never got received a phone call from you guys, she’s going to die and all you guys have to do is just go and talk to her. Please just go and talk to her … tomorrow at noon.

  Bibaher Din / Wedding Day

  It was October 31, 2005, the morning of my wedding day.

  I woke up to a flurry of activity. Ammu and Nani were laying out, on the bed, the maroon katan bridal sari with zardozi embroidery, gold threads with stones attached, handstitched in the shape of paisley. The type of embroidery that once embellished the royals of India. The sari shone and I rubbed my eyes. My stomach grumbled and I thought, I have to call Bhav.

  I pulled myself off the bed with my hennaed hands, designs that looked like tapestried arches and pearls. Although I didn’t have an actual mehndi ceremony, just a few days ago my skin had been rubbed with turmeric from head to toe. My bare arms were now a golden oak; in just a few hours I would have Ammu’s heir-loom bracelet on one of them.

  I tiptoed out of the room. Ammu and Nani were feeling the soft fabric with their fingertips and discussing the silver plate that Shoaib would be presenting me with the next day before the Boubath or Walima event. It would hold more gifts. After which I’d have to move into Shoaib’s home, at least for a little while.

  I shuddered at this thought.

  I didn’t brush my teeth or wash my face. Everyone else was too busy to notice. I staggered past the excited people discussing their outfits and makeup, past the maids cleaning the place for all the future guests, past the hijras outside our door who had heard there would be a wedding and were demanding money, past the living room where Boro Mama and I had all our conversations, his multiple attempts to persuade me that he was right and I wrong. Everyone continued to make orders, count shondesh sweets in boxes, and fold glitzy garments. Ammu and Nani were arranging my wedding trousseau, as in about an hour I would be going to the beauty parlour to get my bridal makeup done.

  At the entrance of Boro Mama’s bedroom, I looked side to side, to ensure no one was around. I darted in, went straight to the phone. Picked up the handset and dialed Bhav’s number.

  “Thank God,” Bhav exclaimed when he heard my faint voice. “I have been waiting by my phone for hours.”

  “Bhav,” I uttered his name as if I was already mourning. I said, “I love you, I always wi—”

  “I found a way,” Bhav interrupted. “It hit me after we last spoke. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. I forwarded all of our text messages to the High Commission. It’s all they needed to see to assume consent,” he explained.

  I could feel my heart lifting from within the shell of my body.

  “They are going to try and be there by eleven thirty a.m.,” he stated. “All you have to do is take the longest shower you have ever taken in your goddamn life.”

  “Okay,” I told him.

  “But after they come, the final decision is yours. You asked me to inform them, but whether you decide to leave, we’ll leave it in your hands.”

  “I love you,” I told him. “Whether we are together or not. I always will.”

  I put the handset down as I heard Ammu call my name.

  “Get ready,” she yelled. “Th
e driver will be here soon to take all the women to the parlour.”

  I lifted each leg, put them one in front of the other, trying to stay upright. Allah, I need you. Allah, please don’t leave me, I prayed under my breath.

  I turned on the tap. Before I took off my clothes, Bilkis walked in with a bucket of warm water in her hands.

  “For you, Apu,” she put the bucket down next to my feet. “Are you okay? You’ll be fine, wherever you are. I know it.”

  I gave Bilkis a hug. “Thank you, for everything. You’ll always be with me.”

  When Bilkis left, I started peeling off each piece of clothing as slowly as I could. As I did, I imagined the vibrancy of the maroon Katan sari that would be draped over me, the gold bangles, and stacked gold necklaces, my hair with copious amounts of hairspray poofed and uplifted, whitish pink flower garlands inserted. I imagined the white powder applied to my face to make my skin lighter, the deep kohl lines bordering my eyes, and the blush dabbed on my cheeks. I imagined my wedding hall in Jatiya Sangsad Bhaban. I hadn’t seen the interior at all, but I had been told that there would be a red carpet leading to a grand stage on which Shoaib and I would sit. Surrounding us would be white drapes falling like the garbs of nawabs and maharajas, and hanging from them red and white roses to signal unity and new beginnings. Every inch of the hall walls covered in fairy lights. The tables for the over five hundred guests, or maybe a thousand, draped in tablecloths made of silk. To the side, by the stage, would be a grand glass table with a colossal whole lamb roast. This is where the close family members of the bride and groom would sit. The roast would be served with plain white pulau, peas, onions, green chilies sprinkled on top, as well as borhani, the yogourt drink blended with mint leaves. I imagined also faces that I did not know, dressed in their best, greeting me with curiosity and offering blessings. Laughter, chatter, music playing. A chaotic cacophony of scents and sounds, devoid of meaning for me then, all fleeting.

  We were to skip all the other cultural wedding rituals, and perhaps many of the guests would be confused as to why: the paan-chini, mehndi, gaye golud or haldi, and even the bou bhat or walima, if necessary. It was important for Boro Mama that the focus be on the nikkah. I myself didn’t understand why under such a circumstance guests needed to be involved at all, or there even needed to be decorations.

  “Because,” Nani said, “you only get married once. You are the second-eldest daughter, and our most prized. We wouldn’t take this opportunity away from you.”

  I would have appreciated this deeply if this was a wedding of my choice, but it wasn’t. I would be showered with fineries that millions of women all over the world only dream of. Yet, right there and then, it was not something I wanted or even felt worthy of. In that moment, I’d consider anything more appealing than waiting to be disrobed in a five-star suite after all the guests had left. I wondered how was it that love in seclusion, although sinful, felt somehow more convivial than a consummation that everyone would be aware of? I wanted the legitimacy of a socially recognized union with a one true love, but not like this, not at all. After all the merrymaking was done, after all the merrymakers were gone, after the ladies’ Gopi foundation melted off with their sweat and the young women exchanged phone numbers with young men to whom they’d never reply, after some uncles shared a smoke, and after the low-wage servers and cleaners took home their pay to feed their hungry families, I would just be left there with a marriage contract I had not wanted to sign.

  I didn’t understand then the logic of it all. Nani, I wanted to say, I don’t love this man. That love and running away for it, giving my life for it, was more appealing than feeling like a queen of a nawab and receiving all these gifts, dressing up and looking beautiful, being catered to hand and foot. None of it mattered, when my heart called out only for him and what was right.

  If Bhav wasn’t there, and the situation wasn’t forced, and it was a simple arranged marriage, yes, I could have considered it. There was very much a difference, although most people outside of the culture didn’t necessarily realize that.

  Arranged marriages aren’t necessarily forced marriages. Most marriages are at the very least encouraged by external forces, but a forced arranged marriage is tantamount to legalized rape. Whether rich or poor, it didn’t matter on which strata one found themselves, this type of rape could be condoned, although it was not permitted in the religion. In the Quran it says, “You who have believed, it is not lawful for you to inherit women by compulsion.”

  ∞

  From the window of the bathroom, I heard the faint sounds of a car horn. Confusion in the voices of the gate guards. “Ki hochay?” “Who are they?”

  One, two … I counted at the back of my mind. “We’re here from the High Commission of Canada. We’d like to speak to …” Three.

  Was it happening? Was it real? The passageways to my lungs were closing. Stifled.

  I wiped myself with the taffy-pink towel, along the side of my neck, my collarbones, under my breasts, and across my navel. The terrycloth and its interlaced loops of thread soaking.

  I walked over to the mirror, wiped my right hand over the mist, to better see my face. The cavities of my eyes smudged with lead, as if I hadn’t slept for weeks. My cheeks were pinched in. If I were to stay longer I would shrink to the point of evaporating like water.

  It was then that I thought I saw her behind me. The Shayṭān Bride. Nervous, wilting, lost, but then, as she raised her chin, a sly smirk, as if she knew what would happen next.

  The commotion outside was getting louder. Boro Mama was on the other side of the bathroom window; I could hear him talking to the guards and High Commission of Canada officials. I heard English, spoken by a man and then a woman.

  “We have an important matter to talk to you about,” the man told Boro Mama.

  “This is the wrong address that you have. I think what you’re looking for is just there, down the street.” Boro Mama tried to redirect them, and I listened in, muttering La ilaha illa Allah Muhammed asul Allah over and over again. If the officials left, I would have no option left. I would certainly be stuck in Bangladesh. I would certainly have to go through with the wedding. The only way out would be something like sinful suicide.

  Still the officials persisted, and I let out a deep breath. “Thank you, Allah,” I cried.

  “I am sorry, you can’t come in.” Boro Mama resisted.

  “Sir, we have been ordered. Here is our identification. If you do not comply, there will be a problem,” I heard the woman repeat firmly a few times.

  Suddenly, Boro Mama’s voice, which all this time sounded like heavy drums, was now a faint echo from the top of a mountain. I imagined his own panic, how he must have felt to not know what was going on exactly. Especially since he was so used to having absolute control in every situation.

  I held my breath as the exchange continued. I even pinched myself. During these days I often felt an uncanny sense of being moved without my knowing, as if there were invisible strings attached to my limbs. Was this really happening? Would it be strange to say that I believe I watched myself like the bathroom lizard, just to make it easier for me to endure what would come next? My skin scaly and stiff, and from my quick lizard eyes seeing the Shayṭān Bride in the mist, strutting out the door to face the commotion, a foreshadowing perhaps of what I should do next. The mist cleared wherever she stepped, as if there was a light emitting from her forehead, showing her the way. An inner knowing.

  I heard the shuffle of footsteps. I heard the voices on the other side of my window fade away.

  I pulled a shalwar kameez over myself. When I opened the bathroom door, I found Ammu and Sweety Khala standing there. Their eyebrows curved and foreheads scrunched. Confusion.

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” I replied.

  They motioned me to the living room. I straggled toward it and they followed. When I entered, I saw a white woman and a white man sitting on two stools across from Boro Mama and Nani on
the claret cloth sofa. Boro Mama was fidgeting with his fingers. He usually sat against the couch, his broad shoulders spread across the back, his right leg up and over his left one, forming a rigid square that mirrored the rigidness of his jaw. Now, both his legs were on the floor and he was hunched over.

  Nani, lovely Nani, appeared confused. Nani, who made mango achar for me because I loved it so much. Lovely Nani, who massaged my scalp with coconut oil so I would have soft, silky hair like hers. Fair, petite, with long hennaed hair and keen eyes, caregiver of seven. Nani sat beside Boro Mama, looking at the floor, her hands neatly folded in her lap.

  The white woman had moss-coloured eyes and blond hair scooped up in a ponytail. The white man’s eyes were a pecan shade. He was bearded, medium build, a little undistinguished, but in a comforting way. They sat fairly still, serious but approachable, both in casual shirts, as if they were ordering coffee in a Starbucks, ready to divulge the events of their day to a friend.

  I imagined they’d possibly say something like — especially in the context of the ongoing War on Terror launched by the United States of America — “Today I rescued some Muslim girl from a forced marriage. You know how they are.” As if I were only Muslim girl and not Sumaiya Matin. As if every girl of the faith was beholden to my story. As if we weren’t capable of uniqueness and complexity and individuality, and also as if all our practices could be reduced to uncontextualized notions of consent, as if our men were worse than other men and our women more eager to submit and therefore stupid and deserving. They would not see Shoaib or Bhav. They probably would not understand that it wasn’t about saving other cultures or religions from themselves, for that would perpetuate the impacts of the damage that had already been caused by colonization and imperialism many years ago. They would not understand the complexity of the war, of love, of family, of tradition — of the complicated history and the beautiful loyalty that had sprung forth between Ammu, Abbu, and, yes, even Boro Mama.