by Ali, Samina
“Mummy wants Sameer Bhai to come and pray,” he said in his high, nasal voice. His eyes slanted up at the corners like his mother’s, lined with the black surma some men wore here to pray.
I stepped aside so he could wake Sameer himself. He hesitated, then rushed in past me. As soon as he moved, I saw Ibrahim, Sameer’s father, on the takat behind him. He was sitting with his legs thrown over the edge, running a flat palm round and round his bald head, his face and clothes crumpled from sleep. Cast about him were pillows and sheets. Zeba was already in the prayer room, the black cloth wrapped about her, lighting incense. I hadn’t realized that the two slept in the main room, right outside our bedroom. I salaamed him and moved back inside, giving him privacy.
Feroz was gripping Sameer’s foot through the netting and shaking it. “Hurry and come,” he said. “Mummy says it’s the first Friday of your marriage. On this day at least you should offer up prayers.”
Sameer snatched his foot away bending his long legs to his chest, and folded the pillow over his head. His voice came out muffled. “Tell her what the mullah said at the nik’kah. Simply by marrying, I’ve done half my duties to Allah. That is all I am willing to do to appease her
.. or her God.”
Feroz called to him again, but Sameer squeezed the pillow over his ears, elbows jutting out, and his brother grunted and headed for the door.
“Bhabhi, it would please Mummy if he prayed,” he said, using the formal title for sister-in-law, though I’d been surprised to learn we were the same age. With the way Feroz rushed to dress each morning for college while Zeba hand-fed him, I had thought there were at least four years between us, he being younger.
“Does she want me to come?” I asked.
He shot me a wry smile, almost condescending, and said, “As your husband has shown, it is up to you. Allah has given us free will.”
After he left, Sameer reached through the netting door and grabbed my hand. It was the first time he’d touched me since the wedding night, three nights before. I knew Nafiza was tallying up the days.
“Don’t leave me,” he pleaded, bringing my hand to his mouth, his own bearing the silver toe ring. He licked the metal.
HIS FATHER. STAYED home Friday mornings, not going into work until after the noon prayers. This one morning along with Sunday was his only time off. Evenings, when he finally arrived back by eight, having endured the four bus changes it took to get from Vijayanagar Colony to the edge of Hyderabad, then over the bridge to its twin city, Secunderabad, he was tired and quiet, and Zeba would send her sons and me away as she tended to him, heating up his bath water, laying out his clothes, setting up his dinner. She made sure the rest of us ate at seven so she could be ready for him when he walked through the door. As he ate, slumped over the plate, she would stand over him and fan him with the day’s newspaper. He always dined alone, politely asking her about her day, their sons, and now, even me. It was Ibrahim, not Sameer, who nightly brought back bottled water for me to drink.
In the mornings, by the time I sat down for breakfast, he was already up and gone. The bus rides took well over an hour, and exhaustion showed on him as clearly as the loose skin on his hands and face from advancing age and the brown spots on his bald head from the biting sun. He was a rail engineer, and Sameer told me he would be up for retirement in four years but was hoping to cut it down to two.
That first Friday morning in my new house, it was his voice that drew me out of bed, after I’d gotten back in again with Sameer. My husband had pulled me to him merely to fall back asleep, on this, the first morning he’d not disappeared. I shed his heavy, slumbering grip and, wrapping the duppatta once more about me, went out. I found Ibrahim sitting alone at the dining table, dressed in a pressed cotton pajama-kameez, the newspaper opened before him. Zeba and Nafiza, were in the kitchen, fussing over the morning meal. I could smell the kitcherie they were making and hear the sizzle of frying eggs. Before me, the four windows in the main room were flung wide, opening onto the vacant lot, the high weeds yellowed and bowed, surrendered to the heat. The takat was cleared of all the blankets and pillows, and the thick Pakistani rug was once more spread on top, the bright knots of color faded by the sun’s harsh glare.
Ibrahim folded the newspaper and set it on the table. He looked over his shoulder at me, his reading glasses low on the bridge of his nose, the lenses a large oval. He smiled and pulled back the chair next to him, its legs scraping the stone floor.
“I was hoping you would come, Beta,” he said, taking off the glasses. He tried to slide them into his shirt pocket, as he did in the button-downs he wore to work, then remembering he was wearing a kameez, set them on the table.
I went and sat beside him. It was the closest I had been to him, and I could see he had tiny brown spots speckling his broad forehead and hairline, on the backs of his hands. Liver spots, perhaps, not from the sun at all.
Beyond him, I could see the whole of the house. No one had bothered or thought to give me a tour, and, in truth, there was not much to show. It was a boxy structure with a flat roof, a more modern construction than Amme’s house in the Old City The square shape had been cut down the center, one side being the divan and master bedroom (my bedroom), and the other, the main area and dining room. The living area, where Zeba and Ibrahim slept, opened onto a smaller room that they had set up as the prayer space, which converted, at night, into Feroz’s bedroom, and the dining room led to the kitchen and bathroom behind me.
“Why don’t you and Zeba Auntie take my room?” I suggested to Ibrahim. It seemed obvious to me now that there was no extra room for the couple, but coming from houses that were always more empty than occupied, it hadn’t occurred to me before.
Ibrahim’s lips slowly drew back into a grin, their reddish-brown color matching that of his skin spots. He snapped back the arms of his glasses, then snapped them shut again. In the bath, Feroz was singing that counting song from the wedding night, while in the kitchen, Zeba was asking Nafiza to taste the mango relish I’d seen her prepare all week, first drying the slices under the sun, then sinking them into spicy oil.
“You’re as innocent as my sister was,” Ibrahim said, staring at the glasses before him. Through the lenses, the red tablecloth enlarged and widened. “When I look at you, I think of her. You have the same round face and round eyes, the same bholi look. She used to say things like that, too.”
“Used to?”
He turned down the corners of his mouth. “She died a long time ago, Beta. When we were still just children. TB in the brain.” He was silent a moment before saying, “Your presence in my house doesn’t seem unfamiliar to me. It seems natural, as though you’ve been here all along. Your husband is in a rush to go to the U.S.,” he said, gesturing back to the bedroom. “I told him to wait awhile, to not take you away from me so quickly, but he says he can’t. Go, go, go. That child has always been like that, in a hurry to go from one thing to the next. He was even going to quit his tutoring so he could rush off to Madras this week to file for his visa, but I talked him into staying. Those kids are depending on him for their entrance exams. It wouldn’t be good to drop them and run. You’ve got to be responsible and finish what you’ve started.”
So he was tutoring. No wonder his mother hadn’t questioned his early departures, his absence all day, as I had been fearing she would.
“And, Beta,” Ibrahim was saying, tilting his head down to look up at me as though he still had on his glasses, “no matter what anyone says, it’s never good to advance yourself while neglecting others, or worse, hurting them. I hope you agree.”
“It’s why I think you two should take the bedroom. This morning, you looked so uncomfortable.”
“Not as uncomfortable as your husband would be if I took away his privacy He’s a new bridegroom, after all. Don’t tell him,” he said, lowering his voice in confidence. “I’ve got tickets for you—two first-class rail tickets—booked for the end of the month. As soon as his tutoring duties are finished, y
ou two may go. I must confess,” he said, putting his glasses back on and opening the paper again, “part of the reason I worked so hard to convince him to stay was so I could have you in my house for the month. After that, Beta, you’ll return to the U.S. with your husband—when will I see you again? Let me enjoy a daughter’s presence for a while.”
AFTER BREAKFAST, ZEBA asked me to join her and Feroz in the prayer room to recite the Qur’an. Every Friday for eleven years, the two had been reciting together, a family tradition she now wanted me to share. I felt too embarrassed to tell her I didn’t know how to read the Qur‘an. My parents had never taught me, nor did they know Arabic themselves. It had been enough for them that I’d memorized the few Arabic surahs I needed to say during prayers. Indeed, Islam in their house consisted of not much more than occasional prayers, on important religious days, on days when Amme needed more comfort. They had never woken me at dawn to pray, and the only time they woke early themselves was during Ramadan, when they had to eat before sunrise. Even then, after Dad began staying with Sabana, Amme found it difficult to do the ritual by herself, and rather than encourage me to fast with her, she would dissuade me, saying the hunger and thirst would distract my attention from studies. I had never fasted more than four days of the required thirty. Nor read the Qur’an, as others did while observing the requirements of Ramadan.
Ibrahim must have sensed my unease, for he quickly sent Sameer and me out for a walk, scolding his wife for asking me to think about God at a time when any new bride would only be able to think about her groom—“Let them get their fill of one another, Zeba, before you begin snatching her away.”
Zeba’s grunt of disapproval followed Sameer and me out the front door, then Nafiza came limping to the boundary gate, scowling behind Sameer’s back. Overhead, the sky was as gray as nails, the clouds low, compressing the heat.
Nafiza said, “When you think the clouds clear? Already so many days go by.” And I knew what she was saying. She was ready to speak to Zeba.
I waited until Sameer was a safe distance away, then pretending to help her close the heavy gate, I whispered, “He’s not escaping me, Nafiza-una, he tutors all day.” I thought the news would please her, but she stared at me with that look of disappointment. I said, “When you went to Amme about Henna and me, what good came of it? She merely accused you of having a dirty mind—Zeba was on the farm, too, she might think the same thing.”
She looked startled before she stepped away from the gate, and I latched it.
Outside, the streets were much calmer than I was used to. No stray dogs sniffing about, no goats rushing into the courtyard to eat fallen guavas, no peddlers pushing carts of bananas and tropical fruits, baskets filled with onions as small as the garlic, ginger twisted into itself. As we walked from the dead end out toward the main roads, as far as I could see stretched a clean line of yellow boundary walls higher than my head, then lush leaves of almond and ashoka trees, giving the squat houses, set back from the road, even more privacy. The sidewalk was constructed of rectangular stones cemented together, the curb painted in horizontal stripes of gold and black, forbidding cars to park. The rust-colored lampposts were encircled at the base by green grass and lilies, a wire mesh protecting the vegetation from passing goats. Here and there, in front of a private gate, a design on the sidewalk in chalk, a swastika or a triangle broken into diamonds, Hindu signs of peace and prosperity, good fortune. Off in the distance, I could see two cows, one on either side of the road, ambling on, white horns curved back into crescent moons, tails flicking flies.
Sameer bumped my side with his, a gesture I’d seen Dad make with Amme, the most affection a husband could show his wife in public. “Don’t worry about Mum,” he said. “You have to stay firm when she asks you to do something you don’t want. You heard me this morning, I told her I wouldn’t pray She’s not the bloody religion police!” He picked up a rock and pitched it at a telephone pole, missing. Up ahead, a group of children dressed in blue school uniforms was slowly crossing the road, sharing treats, school bags thicker than backs.
“I would have joined her except … I don’t know how to read the Qur’an.”
He was stooping for another rock and gazed up at me, eyes squinting against the light. He was wearing the white T-shirt and jeans Amme had sent over on those silver wedding trays, those damn black boots, and, for a moment, peering down at him, I thought I was in the U.S. It was the way he looked and also this, the liberty to walk down the block. Never before in India had I taken a stroll, always in a car, always with a driver and ayah, always taken from one boundary gate to another. The freedom Amme had promised I would experience once I was married seemed to be coming true.
“You were learning more important things in the States. I myself am what you might call a lapsed Muslim.”
“A lapsed Muslim!” I said, laughing.
He shot me a stern look, and I covered my mouth. He cast the stone at the pole again, this time smacking it and sending out the sound of a high clink.
“I’m sorry,” I said, now bumping his side with mine. “Can you tell me what you mean?”
“I mean I have more meaningful beliefs.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged, then felt the muscle of an arm, flexing it between his fingers, before choosing another stone. A scooter blared past, three men squeezed onto the seat. He was gazing up at a coconut, the tree rooted inside the boundary wall. He tossed the rock a few times in his hand, as though weighing it, before changing his mind and flinging it aside.
He glanced at his watch. “Do you want to turn back?”
Turn back? We hadn’t even reached the end of the block! “Do you need to be someplace?” I asked. “Are you tutoring even today?”
He raised his thick brows, surprised, then slowly said, “Only Monday through Thursday.” Then his shoulders slumped, reminding me of how frail his form had been at the time of our engagement. “Listen, Layla,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was embarrassed. My parents can’t fund our trip to Madras, as yours … I’ve been working and saving for the expenses. Alone, I would have stayed in hostels, but with you …” He turned away.
I wanted to reach for his hand but couldn’t in public. Just how much freedom did I really have here with my husband, other than my addressing him by his name—and that only upon Sameer’s insistence? I said, “At your age, Sameer, my father was working and saving, too. He went to the U.S. with fifty dollars in his pocket.”
“And now he drives a fifty-thousand-dollar car!” He shook his head in disgust at his father’s income. “My house, it’s so … it’s not what you’re used to. The crouching toilets and … I heard you talking to Papa about where they sleep. The truth is, they gave us their room, and they won’t take it back, not until we’ve left for the U.S. You don’t have to feel bad, it’s not your fault. Mum sets aside an entire room for prayer, why not use that as their bedroom, make Feroz sleep in the divan or who cares where, he’s just a boy!” He gazed about at the houses then quietly said, “Papa is close to retirement and he’s still renting! I’m not going to be like him, Layla. I’m going to make something of myself! Not here, a man like me can’t succeed here, but there!” His eyes widened, as though perceiving all his opportunities in America right here, among these gates and boundary walls. The lines on his forehead eased, and I thought he smiled faintly before he turned and headed up the road again, flinging his arm in the motion of pitching rocks. I followed, not knowing what to say nor knowing my husband well enough to lend my faith.
Finally, he stopped and waited for me, hands thrust deep inside his pockets. When I caught up, he said, “Your Nafiza, what did she want?”
“Just help with the gate.”
He stared at me, taking in my veil and shalwar-kameez as though for the first time, his lashes so thick they appeared to line the lids. He was trying to judge if I was telling the truth. I took his elbow
“Let’s go to Henna’s,” I said, then joked, “I know they
won’t be praying!”
He didn’t move. “Her house is too far.”
“The wedding car passed their street on the way here. I saw it myself.”
He let out a long breath, clasping his hands behind his back, and lowered his head. “I’m not ready to see your relatives just yet. They’ll ask us if we’re happy and how we enjoy being married, and I won’t know what to say. It’ll only remind me of …” he seemed about to say Nate, then changed his mind, “ … of how we’re not really together. The walima dinner was bad enough.”
I nodded. Henna herself had told me how she didn’t like answering questions about Hanif. And hadn’t I been the one, seeing the groom’s pained expression at the walima, the way he had shut his eyes and turned away from the video, to ask Zeba, who didn’t approve of the cameras anyway, to get them turned off?
“Don’t look so sad, baby,” he said, gently straightening my veil. “I’m telling you, not just yet. It’s only been three or four days, and I don’t need much longer, I swear. Going to your relatives right now would be the wrong move. Trust me,” he said, pinching my chin and raising my face to his, as I had seen a thousand film heroes lift their brides’ faces on those fantasy wedding nights that now seemed truer than mine. “I have faith in things I can see and touch and feel,” he said. “When I have you by my side, what reason do I have to believe in God? You will give me all I need. Razzaq,” he said, provider, and one of the names of Allah.
SATURDAY EVENING, i climbed onto the back of his motorcycle and we took off, gliding through the streets I had seen only through the Fiat’s window. The air pushed at us, thick and dull, heavy with diesel fumes. I kept the veil tight around my head to keep my hair in place. I was sitting with my legs thrown to one side, an arm wrapped about my husband, feeling the hardness of his chest as I had not before. He was leaned forward slightly, fingers curled around the handlebars, switching gears, revving the engine, my ring shimmering on his thumb. The bike was speeding and slowing, slowing and speeding, swerving about cars and lorries, buses moving too fast in this kind of traffic—more bicycles and mopeds, more pedestrians than people safely encased inside vehicles. But what a sensation to be out here, in the open, sliding through the darkening evening. I leaned my cheek against Sameer’s back, jiggling with the bike’s movements, and began to become a part of India as I had not been able to before.