My father, brothers, my sister, mother-in-law, Gezala, and Erfun all gathered in my room to greet the new family member. Even my uncles who lived in Karachi came to congratulate me. A new birth is such a joyous time for a family, and our time together was no different.
I called Erfun over, and I placed our child in his arms.
“Here is your son.” My heart lifted when his eyes grew large as he stared down at the baby boy, his chubby arms and hands waggling with life. What father isn’t overjoyed to hold his son for the first time? I could see the transformation in Erfun. His eyes grew wide with surprise and joy at holding his son in his arms. My hopes grew. He would love this child as I did, and he would love and protect both of us.
I was so tired and weak; I couldn’t help drifting off to sleep despite the gathering. But through the haze, I heard someone reciting the Azan. I opened my eyes; my father-in-law was saying Azan in the ear of my son. They were performing the traditional Gurhty ceremony without me. I forced myself awake. The ceremony required someone worthy of emulation to place a spoonful of honey in the child’s mouth. The child will then take on the personality of the giver. My mother-in-law had the spoon of honey in her hand and was about to place it on my son’s tongue.
“No, no, don’t do that,” I said, firmly. “I will do that.”
My mother-in-law held up and stared at me. I knew what she was thinking: You? But your marriage! She feared that since my marriage was so miserable, I would ruin my son’s life.
“I will give honey to my son,” I insisted, reaching for my baby. I wanted to speak encouraging and positive words to him, guiding him to work hard, gain a good education, and have an upbringing in a loving home. I wanted to prove her wrong. Only God has the power to decide my boy’s destiny. I didn’t care what she or any other person thought of me.
“If Erfun had a better upbringing, my life would be better,” I told her.
She didn’t say anything as she sheepishly handed me the precious bundle.
Erfun stood at the back of the group and never said a word. I took the spoon from her hand, placed it on my son’s tongue, and let the drops of honey run into his mouth. I prayed he would grow strong in kindness and wisdom, and would always be a gracious and courageous man. I wanted him not only to be successful, but to be an example to his father. I had broken tradition by performing this act myself. But it was time for a new tradition, one built on honesty and kindness. After the ceremony, the nurses took my son away, and I lay back and rested.
While I slept, my son received his name from Erfun. Traditionally, the grandparents, elders, and family members sit together and decide on a name that will bring honor to the family. But Erfun didn’t want any of their suggestions. He insisted on Taimoor after a famous king from the fourteenth century. Taimoor had been a great king, but was known for being very rigid and cruel. Erfun’s parents told him it wasn’t a good name for his child, but Erfun insisted, evidently influenced by a friend of his in the army who gave that name to his son.
Three days later, Erfun came back to the hospital to pick us up and bring us home. Instead of home, he took me to my parent’s house. My mother was still in Punjab. For two weeks, my youngest brother Rafhan and my sister cared for me. To them, my child was royalty, and so was I. Such fantastic care spoiled me. My father was very kind and looked happy for both of us. He even offered some good suggestions to take care of my newborn.
Erfun visited every evening.
Two weeks passed quickly, after which Erfun came and drove me home. He seemed content with his son, and he made sure I was comfortable, and then he left. I would not see him for days at a time, and when he did come home, many times he was drunk.
I needed to visit the hospital for removal of my stitches. The day of my appointment, I waited for Erfun to take me. But he never came home. I removed the stitches myself.
In Erfun’s parents’ home, I was treated like a roommate, not a daughter and the mother of their new grandchild. As I gradually regained my strength, and Taimoor began sleeping better and settled into a regular schedule, I returned to my studying. I had not given up on my plans to do a post-graduate study; I just didn’t know when I would have the opportunity. Most of my day was taken up with caring for Taimoor. After I fed, bathed, and changed him, and put him down for his nap, I had time to myself. I pulled out my medical books and spent several hours a day reading.
Outside in the drawing room, unbeknownst to me, Gezala fumed. After a while, my quiet, simple life ended. One afternoon, Erfun stormed into my room in a rage, screaming about my behavior, how I was insulting his sister.
“I told you she does not like you doing this.” He pointed at my books. “What? Do you think you are better than everyone else because you are a doctor? A doctor is nothing! Nothing!”
I couldn’t believe this outburst. He didn’t care about our sleeping child. He didn’t care about my feelings, or any of the promises he had made to me before our marriage.
I was sitting on the bed with one of my books open on my lap. “You used to think me being a doctor was quite impressive. Why do you all of a sudden think so differently?”
He reached down, grabbed the thick textbook off my lap, and tore it in half. Then he shredded everything until the books were destroyed. I stared at the pieces of the expensive text as the torn pages fluttered to the carpet. I had never seen anyone treat a book that way.
“A doctor is nothing! I can hire ten doctors if I need one.” He lunged at the small shelf where I kept my texts and notebooks, and he took them one by one and tore them to shreds, strewing the bed and floor in a shower of confetti. I was too shocked to say a word.
But when I saw he wanted to beat me, I shot up to escape and opened the door. Gezala stood in front of me, evidently leaning close to eavesdrop. She had the strangest expression on her face. Her presence startled me, and her weird grin reminded me of a message from the Quran: “Those who will put hatred between husband and wife will go to hell.” I do not wish hell on anyone, but at that moment, I was certain that’s what she deserved for provoking Erfun’s anger.
Before I could brush past her, Erfun grabbed my wrist and pushed me onto the bed.
“I told you my sister doesn’t like it when you always study, and you don’t understand.” When he finished destroying all of my books and notes, he stood over me. “If I wanted to, I could pay an employee ten times what you make. If I wanted to, I could buy a medical degree for 30,000 rupees, [around USD $350] and I wouldn’t need to read all this.”
“Go ahead, buy a degree. See if it makes you a doctor. I don’t care. Some people do things for reasons other than money.”
He glared at me. I thought for sure he would strike me, but he didn’t. Instead, he stuck an angry finger in my face. “You are nothing! Just an ugly, stupid woman.” Then he stormed out and slammed the door. I heard Gezala’s laugh.
Every part of me felt paralyzed, and moments of my past life flashed through my mind. I remembered the first time Erfun and I had met on the street, and he had offered me a ride. When he had found out that I was a doctor, he had been so impressed. He had marveled at how much I had accomplished, the studying I had completed, and my plans for the future.
The Erfun who destroyed my books and tried to annihilate my dreams and my soul was a completely different man. This Erfun wasn’t the confident, charming man I had married, but a man riddled with a deep sense of inferiority that his wife had a profession that was more prestigious than his.
I lay down on my bed, among my shattered books, bits strewn everywhere, a confetti of hate. Restoring them to wholeness was impossible. I closed my eyes and felt too weak to move. Every dream about my career and my marriage lay among those shards of knowledge, shattered by hate. It was then I heard the frantic wailing of my son. My feet and hands would not obey my efforts to rise. I had to find the strength to go on, to live for my son.
I kept myself busy caring for Taimoor and trying to stay calm. Physically, I was still weak from th
e operation, and Erfun’s destruction of my books and papers had eroded what little energy I did have. Exhaustion came over me that I couldn’t shake, and I suffered from terrible headaches. I fell into silence, not talking to anyone, only to coo at my boy. With him, I could smile and be happy.
I began to understand my father’s words of warning to me before I married Erfun. He was disturbed that I would marry a man with so little education. At the time, it did not seem to matter to me, because Erfun had expressed such respect and enthusiasm for my profession. Now, I had to accept that Erfun had lied to me and that he didn’t care about me. Then why had he married me? I couldn’t understand any of what was happening to me, or why I was trapped in this house of hate.
I had to fight the impulse to lie down, close my eyes, and block out the pain with uninterrupted sleep. My appetite disappeared, and while that was okay for me, it made Taimoor whiny and irritable. I began to bottle feed him to supplement his diet. This meant many trips back and forth to the kitchen, preparing what I needed for Taimoor and myself.
After strict instructions from Erfun to join Gezala and watch TV with her, I went to the drawing room and started watching TV. She turned the TV toward her so I couldn’t see it. I felt humiliated and left the room with a heavy heart.
One day Erfun handed me a videotape. “Watch this,” he said, “and learn from it.” I had no idea what to expect. When I played it, I was horrified. It was a triple-X-rated movie, and the violence to the woman during intimacy by a group of men so shocked me, I shut it off. Anyone who would watch something like that had to be a sexual pervert. I couldn’t think of anything I learned from the movie except that Erfun could be a sexual deviant. It scared me what my future would be like with him around my son and me. When he asked me about the tape, I told him, “I hated it. Don’t ever ask me to watch anything like that again.”
He laughed at me and left the room.
One morning when I wanted to go to the kitchen, it was locked. Erfun’s parents had left the house to visit their relatives. I saw Gezala near the kitchen smiling and showing me the keys. In older homes in Pakistan, kitchens are like bedrooms, with doors and windows that can be locked. Gezala had the keys, and without any regard for my health or the health of my child, she had locked it. I refused to let her get the best of me. I didn’t ask her to open it. She knew I needed to get into the kitchen to feed my child and myself. She knew I needed to keep my strength up, but her jealousy and envy were too intense for her to do what was right.
I didn’t know what to do. Then it came to me; I would go home. My parents lived many miles away on the other side of Karachi, but I didn’t care. I would not stay here any longer. I wasn’t thinking straight, not realizing how hot it was outside and how weak I was.
I bundled Taimoor up, grabbed my purse, and left the house. It must have been well over 100 degrees outside, and the sweltering afternoon sun beat down on my head as I rushed down the street. I don’t know how far I walked, sweat already soaking my clothes, when Erfun drove up and stopped beside me. He rolled down the window and asked me why I was outside with the baby, walking in this heat. I told him what his sister had done, locking the kitchen. We were both starving, and I had to get some food for both of us.
He brought me home, and I was then able to get some food.
But even after that episode, Gezala made it routine to lock the kitchen whenever she got a chance, and she continued to call me names, demeaning me at every turn, telling me that I was nothing, and that I should not think I was better just because I was a doctor. I did everything I could to ignore her, but it was difficult. She lived with us and rarely left the house.
During his time, Erfun’s different girlfriends continued calling me. They would tell me they saw Erfun all over town with a woman. Did I know he was with a girl at a restaurant, at a store, or somewhere else? When I asked him about what the callers were saying about him, he just shrugged. They were jealous, that was all. His advice was for me to stop answering the phone.
Erfun continued coming home very late, and most of the time it was apparent he had been drinking. Every day the weight on me became heavier. I wanted to sink into my bed, close my eyes, and sleep all day. I resisted the urge to collapse inside.
Instead, I decided to begin to confront Erfun as Roohi had warned me to do. When he came home late, I started asking him why he was out so late. Who was he with? What was he doing? Why did he drink so much? How was he going to raise a son if he became a drunk?
He was surprised and reacted angrily: “Why are you asking me these questions? How dare you accuse me?” He shouted that he wanted to divorce me, and he would get it done right away. I broke down crying. “Please, no. I don’t want a divorce. I won’t ask you again.”
I had shown him my weakness. I feared being divorced more than I regretted marrying him. So whenever he came home late, he announced that he planned to divorce me. He just wanted to make me cry.
Once, at two a.m., he roused me from a deep sleep, pulled me out of bed, and pushed me outside the front door, and before he slammed it shut, he said, “I’m divorcing you.” He left me outside. I stood there in the darkness, and realizing how late it was, I stopped crying, and stopped resisting. What is the use? I thought. If he wanted a divorce, then I would agree to it. I stood outside in the darkness, quietly waiting. I did not know what to expect.
An hour later, he opened the door and looked surprised that I hadn’t broken down again.
At the approach to Eid, my mother-in-law told Erfun she needed a new dress for the celebrations. He left me some money and told me to have one made. I took a taxi to my favorite seamstress at Bombay Tailor on Tariq Road. I had forgotten entirely about the calls from some strange women before Taimoor was born, suggesting Erfun was living with a woman on Tariq Road. Despite everything I had already experienced, I could not believe that he would betray me by openly living with another woman.
As my taxi drove along the busy boulevard, I remember thinking about the upcoming holiday together with my family. My heart began to revive, thinking of the dinners and celebrations, the exchanging of gifts.
All of my thoughts changed when I spotted a familiar car ahead of me. I asked the driver to stop, and sure enough, it was Erfun. In the passenger seat was a woman I had never seen before. I got out and followed them as they entered an apartment building. By the time, I entered the lobby, they had disappeared upstairs. I knocked on a door. A woman answered, and I told her I was looking for a friend who lived here, did she know the name of the person living upstairs? I described Erfun.
She said, “Yes, that’s Erfun. He lives upstairs with his wife.”
When I heard her say “wife,” my knees grew weak. I tried to stay composed, and I thanked her. Before I turned away, I grew faint and began to fall. She grabbed my son, and with her free hand steadied me. She led me into her apartment and asked me to sit. I was so dizzy I couldn’t stand, and I plopped into a chair. She offered me some water. The words, “Erfun’s wife,” kept rolling around in my head. How could he do this? How could he betray me like this? I saw them together, laughing and talking, and acting as if they were a couple. I composed myself and left. I stood outside the building for a long time. I was heartbroken, thinking about what to do. I had to confront him. I had to understand what he intended to do. I cannot live like this.
That evening Erfun came home late. I waited for him in the bedroom. As usual, he started yelling for no reason.
“Who was that women you were with today?”
“Why are you questioning me? You know I will divorce you.”
“Answer me. Who was that woman you were with today?” I asked firmly.
“Someone gave you the wrong information. I was working all day.”
“No, you were with a woman. Don’t lie to me.”
“Bring the Quran to me. I will swear on it. Bring it right now.” When I did not move, he picked one from the shelf. He held it out, placed one hand on it, and began to swear.
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sp; “Stop it!” I said loudly. “For God’s sake, do not lie while swearing on the Quran. I saw you with my own eyes with that woman on Tariq Road. I went inside the building, and your neighbor said you were living with your wife. Who is she?”
He gave me a haughty look. “She’s my girlfriend. I’ve been living with her for the past year.”
“She’s your mistress.”
“Her name is Shesta, and I’m going to marry her.”
“No, I will not give you permission to marry her.”
“If you start arguing with me, I’ll divorce you and kick you out of the house.”
“Today,” I said. “Divorce me right now!”
He looked astonished. “You want a divorce?” He was quiet, thinking. “No, no, I will never divorce you. You are too beautiful, and also a doctor. You will marry quickly, and you will have a happy life. I don’t want you to have a happy life.”
“I am not your property; you should know that.” I felt the rage flush my cheeks. “You have destroyed me and my dreams. Do you think I will trust a man again?”
He glared at me but did not say anything.
“Give me a divorce, and then you are free to marry that other woman.”
“She drinks with me and you won’t. She teaches me so many things, like on that tape you hate.”
“She looked like your teacher.”
“I will marry her soon, and you both will live together.”
“Never. You know that Islam permits me to say no to living with you and your new wife. I’m also permitted to ask for a divorce. Besides, according to our law, you must ask permission from me first.”
He stormed toward the door and turned, “I will never divorce you. I will marry Shesta, and you two will live together. Islam says I can have more than one wife, and I want Shesta and you.”
“You are manipulating Islam. Islam does not grant you permission for your fun. There are conditions. First, there must be some solid reason. Second, you have to treat both women the same. You have not fulfilled any of these. You never come home after work. You abuse me, lying to me that you are away on business when you are living in Karachi with Shesta and other women. You do not love or care for Taimoor and me as you promised, and as Islam requires. You have to divorce me first if you want to marry her.”
Courage to Say No Page 8