I woke up in the middle of the night to the aroma of melted cheese on some type of fish. I lifted my weighty legs and dropped them onto the carpet. I sat upright, fighting gravity every step of the way.
The white walls with cracked paint whirled as I walked over to the bathroom and splashed a handful of water over my face. I ran back to the table and fiddled with the Styrofoam box, which contained a tuna fish sandwich. I hadn’t eaten for days. I filled every inch of my mouth with tuna and bread.
After a level of satiation, I began to notice the darkness of the room, how it crept over me, half sinister, half comforting. The sky through my window was pitch-black, too, I thought, until I saw a few glimmers of light.
When I returned to my bed, it occurred to me again that I had no plan for what I’d do next. Certainly, I couldn’t even think beyond the night, to the day after or the day after that. I had missed half a semester of school, and I would be heading into my second year of university where I needed certain prerequisites. What would I do if I couldn’t go to school? How would I pay my tuition if I would already be in debt from this semester’s missed classes? For some reason, all this still mattered so much.
My thoughts spun and I felt a cold chill. I wanted to talk to Abbu again, so I called him.
“I am so glad you called me back,” Abbu told me. “I am so worried about you. Tell me what you need. I’ll do anything you need. Just come home to me, please,” Abbu pleaded. “I cannot live without you.”
“And I without you, Abbu,” I responded.
Abbu didn’t live in the house in North York. He lived in my eardrum, offering me advice and reminding me that he would always give me his support. Ammu was in me, too, but I felt her more in my blood, her vicious stamina. I was the daughter of both these forces.
“Your relatives want to see you. The officials asked the family for your belongings. Sweety Khala’s husband will drop off your suitcase. Will you see him for a few minutes?”
“No,” I told Abbu. “I don’t want to see anyone.”
“Well, what about your Boro Chachi? They just want to know you are okay.”
“Abbu, I was manipulated. If I speak to anyone, they will try to sway me one way or the other. It was all a big manipulation.”
“They told me that you agreed to see Shoaib multiple times and that you said you liked him.”
My voice now raspy, I shook my head in disbelief and then my whole body started shaking, I shot back, “You don’t understand, it was a trick, how they did it.”
I told him I needed to rest, and he replied with “Please come home. I promise I will not let anyone harass you again. I will see to this.”
After that call, I cried for him and then myself, because Abbu actually thought he had power over the situation, and I wasn’t so sure he did. A thought passed me then that I might never really know what he truly felt about everything. The pang in my chest told me not to ask.
I called Bhav again, who was also relieved to hear my voice. I told him that I had spoken to Abbu and what he had said.
“It’s your choice,” he said. “Whatever makes you feel safe, and whatever you are ready for.”
“I think tonight I will sleep and tomorrow morning I will decide what I want to do.”
With that I crawled back under the covers. It was hard for me to draw out thoughts and feelings that belonged to me. The voices, now faint — Bhav’s, Abbu’s, Ammu’s, Boro Mama’s, Sweety Khala’s, Shoaib’s, and the world’s — had been louder than Dhaka streets mere hours ago. Then there was Shoaib, who crossed my mind for the first time that evening. What was he now thinking?
My thoughts on a reel, round and round they went. Edges of the off-white wallpaper were peeling off the surfaces they had been stuck to. The lightbulb above my head flickered like a bad itch. As it burned out, so did I.
From:
Sent: October 31, 2005, 4:54 AM
To:
Subject: RE: Please
As I’m sure you’ve heard, we found her and spoke with her. She is with us at the High Commission and we are giving her some time at a hotel to think about what she wants to do. She will get in touch with you.
From:
Sent: October 5, 2005, 5:31 PM
To:
Subject: Funds for Sumaiya
Hello ,
As per our telecon today, I’m very pleased that Sukmaiya is now safe and preparing to return to Canada. She will need money for her tickets home, and maybe a new passport. It’s very good to know you are here to help.
Attached is the form for you to complete and sign, which authorises us to debit your credit card. Once we debit your card, the money will be available to our High Commission in Dhaka. They will arrange tickets and anything else necessary so Sumaiya can fly home to Canada.
I am hoping to have the full costs available tomorrow, and will let you know as soon as I do. However, I looked at flights on Travelocity.ca, and while there are several on Thurs 03 Nov from $1221.00, most are $1500 and up. Usually flights are cheaper when purchased locally, so hopefully the price will stay under $1500, but of course it does depend on the day of the week and the airline and routes etc.
Please note that there is a consular service fee of $75.00 to be added to the amount needed for Sumaiya’s expenses.
Thank you for your kind assistance.
I stayed in the hotel for almost two weeks before deciding to fly back to Canada, to return to my parents’ home. I made this choice after much thought, because I had faith that everyone could seek resolve and heal together. It was important to me not to abandon anyone, including myself.
It was my first time alone on a plane. I was wearing a green-and-black salwar kameez with gold print and open-toed sandals, even though I knew there might be snow in Toronto. My hair was in a bun. Next to me sat an Asian man, maybe in his late thirties or early forties. He reeked of cigarettes, salt, and pepper when he leaned in closer. I shifted my eyes to the window. With uneasiness, I pulled the blinds down.
“You’re going to miss out on the beautiful view,” he said. I could see the glint in his eye, of interest and curiosity.
I was worn out like his faded black shirt. I hoped he would leave, go away. He didn’t. I just smiled and nodded, then swiftly looked away.
“Why are you alone?” he asked me. “Do you not have a husband or a father?”
I almost choked on my own saliva. “I’m just alone.”
He smiled, as if to suggest, I can be your father or your husband, or maybe something else.
I cringed, thinking he might do something worse, maybe even wink. I wondered if there was something about me that asked for the companionship of a husband or a father. Or perhaps it was him, and what he expected or wanted. What he thought I wanted or needed. It was interesting to me because, for the first time, I found a small space in my consciousness, a loophole, perhaps, through which I could slip through. Where I could get away from however it was that he expected me to perform.
The man continued talking. He told me that he had a business in Singapore and travelled often for it. He was a single man looking to settle down, although I wasn’t entirely sure I believed that. He had a ring or two on his fingers, but I politely didn’t point that out. He told me that I was beautiful and that I was always welcome to contact him if ever in Singapore. He gave me his business card and I took it as a memento, of my first solo ride on a plane, and under such circumstances. He had no idea what I had just been through. I smiled an unfeigned smile and nestled into my seat. Draped a blanket over myself. I was safe for now.
Quatervois
I bumped into Ammu and my siblings at the baggage claim of Toronto Pearson International Airport when the plane landed. I speculated whether they had been on the same flight as me. We didn’t say anything to each other, other than Ammu asking how I would get home and suggesting that we could all ride together.
In the taxi, I noticed the streets were just how I had left them. Things seemed to move as they always did — t
he buses, the crowds, the leaves of trees lining streets.
When we got to our somewhat suburban neighbourhood in North York, I noticed the green leaves of the vines that climbed the house’s red bricks had fallen off, the roses on Ammu’s lawn were no more, and the snow on the car window had not been cleared.
I knocked. Abbu opened the door with frail hands. He appeared smaller than usual. He probably hadn’t eaten or slept for days. His hair was now almost past his chin. The lower half of his face was dotted with grey stubble.
Inside, the house looked like a storm’s collateral damage. There were long-distance calling cards scattered all over the floor. The plants were all dead. Photograph frames on the walls and the almari collected dust. There was a tower of dishes tilting in the sink, and the beds were unmade.
I entered my old room, a seemingly average teenager’s room: clothing over the bed, movie posters on the wall, novels stacked on my night table. I closed the door behind me. When I sat on the bed, it creaked. I titled forward slightly then flung myself backward onto the mattress, which bounced me a little. It was such a relief to be back in my own room.
This bed would be where I would find myself for the next few days, under the duvet with the curtains drawn. It had been so long since I’d been able to navigate space freely that too much of it made me uncomfortable. I heard the floor creak when people moved. I watched the white walls watch me. I breathed. I spoke with no one and no one spoke with me. The betrayal had drained me, and the estrangement left the rooms of the house barren. Still, the house was a busy house. There was noise, despite all that went unspoken.
I remained like this, doing nothing while the world spun around me like a carousel. Underneath my skin I could feel my dying cells. Necrosis. The cell membranes swelling then bursting, one by one. A white noise began to spread. I heard the pulsing of blood vessels at my wrist, even more acutely.
During one of these days, it came to me that in this nothingness I was continually being reduced to, I was also being reborn.
I had thought of Bhav every single day for the last five months, and now that I was back I would finally see him again. I wondered how it would feel to once again have his hands cupping my face. Would the warmth be ferocious and overtaking or would it feel different? How crucial was it, this thing we called touch, that had the power to not only prolong our life but mould our bodies so we anticipate and expect certain possibilities?
I wanted to hear his voice. I didn’t have a phone. I didn’t want to ask for the password to the home computer so I could send an email. So, I waited by my window every night, hoping Bhav would appear. He would have been notified by the High Commission officials that I had arrived. This time, I would not just talk to him from my window but actually come down to meet him, without caring if anyone saw us. He didn’t come.
So, in a few days, I trudged downtown to the University of Toronto, where I was still a student — I hoped. Downtown looked how it always had, steel and concrete. Corporate automata dressed in black and white. Wide-eyed or underslept students, the businessmen in their suits, mothers with yoga mats, skateboarders, drag queens, the forgotten homeless. All the people I knew and didn’t know had gone about their lives.
At the Registrar’s Office I’d have to inquire what my status was. I knew the deadline for a tuition refund had passed. Thousands of dollars that I would have to eventually pay back. I also knew that I probably wouldn’t be able to enrol in the current semester or next, that I would probably have to wait a whole year before I could continue my studies. All this I thought with a nagging frustration, as the delay in returning to Canada wasn’t my doing and because my education was important to me. I’d always tried hard and done well in school. Still, I had to make do with the situation.
On my way to the Registrar’s Office, I stopped at Robarts Library, shuffling through the rotating doors and passing the students flipping pages of their books and scanning their computer screens robotically.
At the computer desk, I opened Internet Explorer and then my email inbox. I took a deep breath. Although I had been awaiting, with great anticipation, for the moment to see Bhav again, I was now at a loss for words. What could I say to him? It was the mere act of writing an email — I had done the same thing almost a year ago here in this library, and the difference between that time and this time seemed so little. Well, maybe I was moving slower these days, second-guessing my thoughts more, having to do double takes at people because a fundamental trust had been broken.
I typed my email to Bhav. I asked him to meet me at the Humber Valley Pond, which was close to where I lived. My hands were clammy against the keyboard, and as I typed I realized that when I thought of Bhav now, I didn’t necessarily think of him like my hero or saviour. I was now more concerned with becoming a heroine to myself. The strong instinct to protect, to live. A distinct cleaving from what was on the other side of my skin — was it my awareness changing or the reality I was in? A newfound independence, perhaps, or a type of self-preservation.
After, at the Registrar’s Office, it was confirmed that I would miss almost a year of university without getting any money back. I clutched my paperwork and left. Outside, I looked back at the entrance. How many futures did this institution and these university employees shape without ever truly knowing the person’s circumstances? More than ever, I felt like a number. As I watched the students pass by, looking ahead as if they were following a very straight line, one by one, walking behind one another on the street, I wanted to touch the space between them. My surroundings seemed two-dimensional, like flat paper. Then there was a light tug of determination. I would find a way to complete my education no matter what.
∞
When I saw Bhav sitting on the park bench from afar, I ran through the snow toward him. When I reached the bench, he stood up and we hugged. He then picked me up and twirled me around. “I am so happy to see you again!”
As we twirled around, his warm breath on my face, I did feel as if I had found a part of myself that had been stored away for a while. The discovery of an old dusty box with keepsakes under the bed, or in your dresser. Somehow, however, there was a sadness. That part was either gone or had changed, and so the joy I felt at the discovery was rather fleeting.
I thought that perhaps the trees surrounding us would bow down. I thought the spiral arm of winter’s milky way would wrap around our bodies to keep us warm. That the smoke from the chimneys would dance in the sky in the shape of figure skaters. Our arms would intertwine like branches of a wreath. The joy of a magical winter evening and the joy of two lovers reunited.
Such didn’t happen. Yes, the season had changed, and the nights were now pale. Bhav still tasted like roasted coffee, the type that would give me solace when waking up every morning. Indeed, and without doubt, this was a comfort very specific and individual. For me alone. Yet, the rush toward him hit more like the rocks along the shoreline than the ocean’s water itself — there was a certain durability but still some erosion. Surges slowed. He and I had endured together such a tragic event. In this test, we had made it back to each other. Yet, what did back to each other mean? I didn’t even know who I was anymore.
I saw in his beard a couple of shiny strands, which I pulled out. “It has been five months and you’ve already gone grey.”
He laughed and I thought, This man is so beautiful. I remember why I was so crazy about him. I wanted to tell him then everything I had seen and felt. Would it make sense to him? Would it scare him away?
“We haven’t lost the battle,” Bhav declared.
To which I nodded. “Do you think we will make it? Where do we go from here?” I asked.
“What we’ve always done. Hold on,” Bhav said.
“For how long?” I asked him.
“However long it is,” Bhav assured me. “We won’t lose this battle.”
The cold breeze that slid toward us and rested on our cheeks was a stark awakening — I no longer saw it this way, this us against the world, alt
hough in Dhaka I might have felt that.
“Will you tell anyone?” Bhav asked, peering into my eyes. “About what happened to you?”
I shook my head. “Maybe to a couple of my friends, but no one else.”
“Well, you know I’ll always be here for you,” he said.
When I left, Bhav’s words were like drumbeats at the base of my ears. I was glad to be back. However, in the solace, there was still a lingering dissension.
During one of these early days after my return, I went with Bhav to his friend’s home. His friend had recently married his girlfriend, and Bhav wanted the same for himself. I knew this by what Bhav had said during the short stroll we took in the park near this friend’s home, and the beautiful ceramic ornament he had given me of two white doves joined by the beaks.
“Birds symbolize peace, but also transformation,” he said. “I want us to grow together. We can put this on the shelf of our future home that we will build together.”
Our future home, he’d said.
Bhav held my hand, my fingers intertwined with his, and I shuddered like the surrounding aspens that shook their leaves. My skin suddenly stiff like bark.
“I have to finish school, and about us —” I said, almost stuttering.
“Yes, of course,” he replied.
I didn’t elaborate then on some thoughts I had been having about going on to do a master’s degree after completing my undergraduate. I was considering becoming a therapist.
Bhav’s eyes dropped then to the grass, but all I could feel in my chest were all the tumbling buildings ever bombed in the name of faith or love. As we stood there, Bhav’s fingers framing a side of my face, I almost tipped over.
The Shaytan Bride Page 23