I left the kitchen, leaving Sweety Khala to prepare her feast, deciding that she already had enough on her plate.
Later that day I asked again, this time to Ammu, who said, “You’re a grown Canadian woman. Why are you even asking about this? Jinns and such, chi. You have more important things to worry about than this nonsense.”
I raised my eyebrows, recalling that just a few months earlier, when I was looking through one of Ammu’s wedding albums, I came across a photograph of her on her wedding day in a red Banarasi sari. When she saw me admiring it and came closer to take a look herself, she shrieked, pointing to the small woman sitting next to her. The woman, also never married, was said to have a jinni in her.
On the plane back to Canada, I looked out the window and saw the buildings, mostly white and beige, stacked next to each other, human-made reservoirs of green waters and a twilight sheen signalling the sun’s departure. In all of these years, I could perhaps have come across the Shayṭān Bride at some point without having known it.
If I had seen her, I would have whispered to her, “Read my lips: you have the rights you most desire.”
I wanted to tell her that I believed in her, what she knew, and that she could choose herself.
Then I saw the reflection of my face on the window of the airplane: black hair, curious eyes, Darvaza flames as strong as the longing for love and life.
Conversations with Trees (Part Two)
It was a summer afternoon in 2016 and Zahara, my cousin, was driving me from the Thunder Bay International Airport to Pori and Ahsan Khalu’s white house. I would be meeting some family members there for a short reunion and we’d be spending a few weeks out in Ahsan Khalu’s cottage, fishing, cooking, and conversing together.
I hadn’t seen Zahara in years. She was now a junior architect, following in the footsteps of her father, still quiet and observing with her large eyes and cautiously donated smile, frugal about the information or sentiments she shared. I wondered how her friend Annabelle was. It had been so long since my brief time there, who I had been then, the era before English when my days passed slowly, snowily, and I mostly spoke with trees.
As Zahara drove, I gazed out the car window. The roads weren’t as wide as I remembered, except the buildings that bordered them were just the same: small, single storeyed. The grandiosity of the Thunder Bay captured through my childhood eyes shrivelled down two-fold. The bungalows passing like stories of lifetimes that bobbed beyond reach.
We’d pass the Kaministiquia River, where dead bodies of Indigenous children had been found. One of the largest inquests in history was happening. And not too far away, Kakabeka Falls, underneath which were ancient fossils. Just further down, closer to the harbour, one could also see the mesas that form the shape of a giant laying on his back. The Sleeping Giant, it was called. I had heard the name came from the Ojibwe Oral Tradition that had to do with giving away secrets to colonizers.
The house was not too far from the grand Mount McKay. As we got closer, I could see the mountain from a distance. Thunder Mountain, Animikii-wajiw in the Ojibwe language, the mountain where sacred ceremonies take place.
As my eyes feasted on the Canadian landscape, a sense of wonderment was reinvoked in me. I remembered the mountains of my childhood. The ease with which I seemed to fold into nature, my awareness of my oneness with the earth and the amplification of that oneness as I navigated my world. I remembered also sitting alone and watching all the people.
When Zahara and I finally arrived at the white-brick house, bordered by garnet roses, amethyst lilacs, and emerald bushes, I hesitated before going in. Wasn’t it here that I last truly felt cohesive? When was it that the geography started imposing itself on me? Calling me into its predatory winters? It hadn’t killed me, but it could be said there was a fracture. Things that once seemed solid could break into parts. How many pieces do I contain? Am I like others? Am I a good person? Are my decisions flawed? Would it be better to change or stay the same? I had read somewhere that freedom was a series of decisions. What would I decide each day?
For a moment, I also thought about all the ways I had been privileged, which allowed me to survive the quietus that I had; in this lifetime, and for now. I reached my hand toward the door but heard someone calling.
Sweety Khala? Ammu? Nani? It could be the Shayṭān Bride, one of them, all of them, none of them.
Had someone truly cried out to me? All around the land was empty and frozen and quiet. Who here would know me as one to call out to? Yet it seemed so clearly directed toward me. That cry had carried a startling urgency that compelled me to stop and turn. My heart thudding. A brief glimpse of my hands, shaped like the hands of my family.
I spun around to see a V of Canada geese twist and turn around the pine trees like a mutating double helix. My eye lingered at the front, the point of the V: beyond the uniform of drab goose feathers there was a strikingly familiar startling shade of green. I cannot be sure of myself, as we all have ways of seeing what we need to see. Memory imposes itself on every landscape. I am the snow. I am the trees. I am the Canadian birds in a V, at the tip of which I swear I saw a parakeet.
Acknowledgements
There are several wonderful souls who have contributed to the shaping of this book and at various stages of its development.
First and foremost, thank you to my friend/professor/mentor/editor, Julie Mannell at Dundurn Press. Julie, thank you for believing in me, my writing, and the potential of this story. You are intelligent, funny, and incredibly talented. You’ve done more than just edit this story — you’ve helped me piece together floating memories into something I could share with the world.
The entire team at Dundurn Press has been so supportive of The Shayṭān Bride. Special thanks to Jenny McWha, the project editor who worked patiently and diligently to address my last-minute requests as we raced against the clock to get this book ready for publication. Words cannot describe how appreciative I am of your work. Thank you also to Kristina Jagger, Laura Boyle, Heather Wood, Scott Fraser, and all the other folks at Dundurn Press who I didn’t work with directly but who were behind the scenes making this book happen — thank you so much. Julie and I have always thought of this debut book as an artifact. You’ve all been so responsive and handled this book so carefully. I am deeply honoured that The Shayṭān Bride is one of Dundurn’s first Rare Machines titles — I cannot think of anything more fitting.
I want to acknowledge also my Ammu and Abbu: I wouldn’t have been able to see this book through if I wasn’t the daughter of strong forces like you. Thank you also to my biggest supporter and sounding board, Vishaal.
Before my manuscript was submitted to Dundurn Press, I was part of several writing groups where I workshopped content from this book. My wonderful classmates from the Autobiography and Memoir class I took in 2019 at George Brown College provided their critical feedback and touched this story with their spirit even before it was fully conceived. Their encouragement and honest feedback strengthened my belief that there are people out there waiting to read a book like The Shayṭān Bride, and that the time to get the book done was the present. I will never forget these souls and the beautiful, thoughtful, funny, and deeply moving life stories they shared with me.
It was in this class that I met activist/writer/academic Mandi Gray, who always supported my work by sending me relevant articles and connecting me to other activists, academics, and writers. When I joined Mandi’s creative writing group, I had the opportunity to receive feedback from talented writers like Nilum Panesar, Alex Wilson, Leigha Comer, Megan Kinch, Andrea Brockie, and Kelly Skower. During our biweekly calls, these savvy and thoughtful scribblers always left me with questions to ponder or pointed out my blind spots, which challenged me to grow and improve my craft. Thank you. Marlene Malik, whom I met at another writing group, was also kind enough to review a few chapters. Of course, there was also Michele Byrne, my colleague, friend, and cheerleader, who gifted me with her discernment and compassion wh
enever I shared a few pages with her. It means so much to me to be around such wise women.
Before writing this narrative as a non-fiction book, I tried to write it as a fiction. Although my mentor, Shyam Selvadurai, at the Humber School for Writers did not work directly with me on The Shayṭān Bride, his insights and encouragement on my fiction book were helpful to my creative process and influenced my final decision to share this narrative as non-fiction, and for that I am grateful.
Thank you also to my friend Tahbit Chowdhury, who was always available when I wanted to bounce around ideas and get feedback. Tahbit, your humour and insight made the editing process fun.
When it comes to marketing myself and my work I am not the greatest, so Tasnim Jerin, Karam Masri, and Lainey Cameron’s Writers Support Group — thank you for sharing marketing/promo leads and ideas. I’m deeply appreciative of your contributions. Silmy Abdullah and MCIS Language Solutions, thank you for your help with the translations.
I believe there are many more characters in my life who have somehow touched this book (even before it was written) for I do believe every book has a destiny of its own, even separate from the author.
Of course, there is Allah, who opened the pathways for this to happen.
And thank you to my readers who spent their time and attention reading this book. I am deeply grateful and honoured that you chose it, and that it chose you.
About the Author
photo credit: Giulia Ciampini
SUMAIYA MATIN is a writer, part-time social worker/psychotherapist, and strategic advisor for the Ontario government who has worked on a wide range of public policy files, including anti-racism. She was born in Dhaka, Bangladesh, and emigrated to Canada at the age of six. Sumaiya has worked on various projects internationally and locally that support marginalized populations. She is particularly passionate about spirituality/faith, intersections between gender and religion, cross-cultural communications, and mental health. Sumaiya loves exploring new and unique places, as well as the terrains of her mind on rainy days through good books and mind-boggling thriller films. She loves music and is currently picking up where she left off with her childhood harmonium lessons. You can find her in the kitchen trying out new recipes or on long hikes in the middle of nowhere. Sumaiya lives in Toronto.
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