“What are you saying Jhumur?”
“Have I said something wrong?”
“You’re saying your mother is a bad omen. Who has a mother more loving than yours!” Parul’s voice rang with amazement.
“What a heartrending speech! You live with your parents. Do you feel close to them? You slave day and night not knowing where you belong. You should be the last person to praise parents!”
That put an end to our conversation. I put the receiver down and splashed some water on my face. I wanted to be rid of all these demands. Parul would certainly report the conversation to Nupur, who would pass it on. I didn’t care. I didn’t want any friend or relative to seek me out. I didn’t want anything to interrupt my becoming pregnant by Afzal. I didn’t care if my parents were hurt or my sister agitated enough to strike her child.
Hasan was soon moved to a closer hospital. A piece of his fractured rib had pierced one of his lungs and another round of surgeries was required. Sebati arranged for a hospital transfer and for the operation and Amma and Haroon consulted with her day and night, inviting her to meals, buying her presents, including a beautiful sari. I was thrilled. One night, Amma declared Sebati an honorary daughter and asked her to be present at the hospital the day of the operation. Seeing Amma in such a benevolent mood, Sebati asked if I might be allowed to come down to her flat and help arrange her new furniture.
Amma was only too pleased to let me go and I ran downstairs, lighthearted. I assumed that Amma would tell Haroon where I was, should he call, and, as for herself, she didn’t mind if I spent the entire night if Sebati wanted me to. They knew no one in the medical profession. She was their only hope.
Anwar was away for work and Afzal out at an embassy party—he was in search of fellowship possibilities for study abroad. Shifting one of the paintings to make room for a new table she had bought, Sebati exclaimed. “I have no idea what to do with Afzal! He paints only nudes! It embarrasses me in front of my friends.”
It was a painting I hadn’t seen before, and I was stunned when I got a look. Who was this new nude? A girl with long black hair down to her waist, eyes as dark as the depths of a pool, breasts round and firm, a blushing face. Could it be me? My throat went dry. I began to move things around to distract myself, deliberating where to put the table, a vase of flowers, the cane ottoman, potted plants. Sebati and I were deep in conversation. She was telling me that Anwar was incapable of giving her any sexual satisfaction and that she was paying a heavy price for marrying him. Her parents had wanted her to marry a doctor, but she had fallen for Anwar. Why refuse him? She discovered he was impotent on their wedding night, too late to change her mind. They had consulted psychiatrists, even sexologists, but nothing had succeeded.
“Sometimes I feel like leaving him, abandoning him and slipping into Afzal’s bed,” she burst out. I was totally taken aback. “Look at all the nudes he paints! I feel strange when I gaze at them, like stripping and standing naked in front of him myself. What would it be like to have his eyes rove my body? I want him to make love to me.”
I tried to remain composed as I pulled my eyes away, and then, suddenly, Sebati fell upon me, weeping. Much as I wanted to put my arms around her and give her comfort, I couldn’t.
“You must think I’m terrible for wanting to sleep with my own brother-in-law,” she whimpered.
I wanted to assure her that I didn’t think ill of her at all, but I could hardly make myself audible.
“You are such a wonderful friend,” Sebati went on, her voice choked with feeling. “I can tell you anything . . . ” And then she was suddenly upright and efficient, digging at her plants.
“Why don’t you leave Anwar and marry Afzal?” I asked her.
“Who knows what’s on his mind? Perhaps he’s already in love with someone.”
“Who would he be in love with?”
“I wish I knew.” Sebati sighed. “So many times, when Anwar has been away, I have gone to Afzal’s room wearing nothing but a flimsy nightgown. We’ve talked for hours, but he has never once looked at me. Instead, at a certain point, he’ll say, ‘Bhabi, it’s late, go to bed.’”
I could hardly keep breathing as she talked. She loved Anwar, and had compassion for him. Now they slept next to each other, like brother and sister. Time and time again, she told herself that she couldn’t continue this way, but she hadn’t found a solution.
One evening, soon after, Sebati made arrangements to sleep in a separate bedroom.
12
I had slept with Afzal for seven consecutive days, inventing a raft of increasingly imaginative excuses for not allowing Haroon even to touch me. I submitted to Haroon’s sexual onslaught only during my period, giving myself to him as many times as he wanted, lying there, near dead. He knew little about women’s cycles and was convinced that the first day of the period was a propitious time to get pregnant. He would not allow me even to go to the bathroom to wash—he was that serious about making me pregnant.
“Stay where you are,” he’d say, frightened his semen would wash away even if I took a simple shower.
“Okay, my darling.”
“And soon we’ll have exciting news! As soon as sometime this month!” And then he gave me one of his gentlest smiles, hugging me and kissing me all over. Now I was his darling wife! “And this time, it will be our baby!” I still did not understand how he could have imagined I had cheated on him, bringing another man’s child to our marriage and still claim he loved me, but somehow he had convinced himself the whole abortion episode was merely a mistake, that, like him, I was content to go on as before. Little did he know that in order to love him again, I had to betray him. How surprised he would be to learn that betrayal actually didn’t come easily to me.
The next evening, fidgety and restless, I stood on the veranda, and when Afzal appeared, I smiled weakly, but when he motioned me to come downstairs, I pretended I didn’t understand what he meant. Because I was sleeping with Haroon, I did not feel like giving myself to Afzal, even though it would have been easy. Rosuni had gone to visit an uncle, my father-in-law was in a deep sleep, exhausted from a trip to Noakhai, Haroon was at work, and the rest of the family was at the hospital. My lover was alone and waiting for me, but my mind and body were suddenly immune to him. I took out a book I’d already read twice and humming to myself, stretched out on my bed. But I soon dozed off, only to waken to the telephone. “Hello?” There was no response, only the sound of a deep sigh. I knew at once who it was and hung up. My heart began to thump. Was Afzal determined to be the cause of my ruin? I dialed Haroon.
“What’s the matter?” he said, surprised.
“Nothing. When are you coming home?”
“Do you want something from the drugstore?”
“No, darling. I was just thinking of you. I see so little of you these days.” Haroon went silent for a moment, and I wondered what he was thinking.
“Is everything all right at home?”
“Yes. Abba is asleep. I’m to wake him at ten to give him kalojeera rice and fish curry for supper.”
“Has Dolon taken Somaiya with her to the hospital?”
“She has.”
“I’ve told her so many times to leave the girl with you!”
“I know, but Dolon says she always makes a fuss about visiting Uncle Hasan. And she loves all the busyness of the hospital.”
“So we’ll have a doctor in the family!”
“Are you stopping there on your way home?”
“Why yes, darling,” Haroon said, his voice thickening. “Tell me if I can bring you something!”
“Nothing, sweetheart.”
“And you’ve become such an expert at reading the Koran!”
“I have indeed. And I prayed to Allah to make your brother well . . . ”
“Pray for yourself, too.”
“Why?”
“Ask Allah to give you a child!”
Our telephonic tête-á-tête ended with Haroon sending me a resounding kiss across
the line. Putting the receiver down, I smiled to myself. Yes, Haroon, flood me with your sap . . . let your sperm run riot in my womb in a mad search for a fertile ovum. It won’t find one, and you, Haroon, will never know!
I didn’t know quite how much money Haroon had been spending on Hasan’s illness. I’d seen him give his parents household money every few days, but he never discussed money matters with me. Sebati paid the downstairs rent straight to Amma. Maybe he thought I wasn’t competent to handle our financial affairs. Such a contrast to the first days of our marriage when he went through his business files, identifying columns of figures as I sat next to him. Did he think marriage had slowed my wits! It was true I had hardly any interest in the subject, yet I’d now started to feel the need for my own money. I didn’t have a penny for myself, but, of course, what need had a simple bou for cash? Haroon purchased whatever he thought I needed—a couple of saris to wear around the house, a jar of Nivea cream, even the most personal things. If I asked him for something he didn’t have time to buy, he sent Dolon. He denied me nothing yet gave me nothing.
During the time when I had my period, Haroon took a day off from work; he had arranged a feast with three religious teachers who were visiting us. The feast was to take place in the evening, and Haroon kept himself busy reading the Koran, starting in the morning. There was a heavy smell of attar in the air, which reminded me of death. In the evening, I cooked for the celebratory supper while Haroon went out and bought a vast array of sweets from Allauddin’s shop.
Dressed in formal attire, my father-in-law attended to the Moulavis, demanding tea for them and biscuits. Rosuni and Sakhina had their hands full, and I was working up a sweat running errands for Amma, who could not keep herself from complaining about her aches and pains. I arranged cushions and shawls, filled vases for the flowers and added sugar to the fruit ices, keeping my head covered no matter the awkwardness as I completed one task after another. Haroon strode about like the lord of the manor, pleased and satisfied that things were going so well and that he would soon welcome scores of neighbors and friends.
“Who should we ask from downstairs?” he asked. I was pressing limes for sorbet and a seed fell into the liquid.
“Damn it!” I spluttered, dipping for it with a spoon.
“Don’t bother, you’ll have to strain the sorbet anyway.”
“Ah yes,” I said, then replied to his question about our neighbors. “Sebati is not at home. She’ll come up when she gets back from the hospital.”
“Her husband is not at home?”
“Why don’t you go down and see?”
“Has Sebati told her husband about today’s festivities?”
“How would I know?” I was looking for the strainer.
“I believe she has a brother-in-law. We must ask him too.”
“Do you mean her husband’s brother?”
“Yes, Anwar’s brother.”
“Oh yes, Sebati mentioned he was visiting before going abroad,” I said, pretending total indifference. Haroon promptly sent Habib down to Sebati’s flat, but he came back almost immediately. The place was locked up, he said. Not a soul to be found. I heaved a sigh of relief.
Soon people arrived in throngs, the intensity of their cries of “Allah” resounding, shaking the house to its foundations. My body was also feeling reverberations. During prayers, men stand together in the open courtyard, while the women mumble their prayers huddled indoors, veiled and excluded. Because I was “polluted” with my period, I was exempt from any prayer at all. When the last guest had left, Haroon came to bed, eager to make love to me.
13
A few days later, both legs in casts, Hasan was back home. Ranu stopped her interminable sobbing, and Dolon left for Chittagong, taking Somaiya along. Sebati came to our flat almost every day, writing new prescriptions and changing Hasan’s bandages. Amma complained all the more. She was feverish and called poor Sebati on the phone even during the day to prescribe remedies, which Sebati did, generously offering the free samples she received as a physician. Amma was ever more eager to please her. She worried constantly about what to offer Sebati to eat and took to praising her repeatedly.
I wondered, when she noted my friend’s compassion and generosity, whether Amma wished Sebati were her daughter-in-law instead of me. A bou with a stethoscope around her neck is wonderful to imagine, but what if she were to set aside Amma’s kitchen to run to the hospital to save the life of some poor woman? What if she went out before dawn or after she got home from her office to attend to patients at a private clinic? Would the family have tolerated her?
My period had ended, and I was ready to visit Afzal again. There were new excuses now to visit Sebati’s flat. Hasan needed a new set of bandages. Sebati had left Amma’s medication on the table downstairs for me to retrieve. But there were also people at home more often, and Afzal was even crazier for me now that I had less time.
“Jhumur, darling, where have you been? Have you forgotten me?” he asked when I stole a few hours to visit him downstairs.
“I haven’t forgotten you even for a second,” I told him. “I need you desperately, more now than ever.”
He was eager to show the work he had done since we’d last seen each other. From a hiding place, he pulled out six paintings he’d done in a single day, one after the other.
“Who is that woman?”
“Can’t you tell?”
“No,” I said, giving him a naughty smile. He held a mirror up to my face. “Tell me you don’t see your own beautiful face.” I laughed, relieved to bury my face again in the curly tangle on his chest. When we made love, our bodies mingled in ecstasy as if to make up for my abstinence. Exhausted, I counted my blessings when it was time for me to return home.
“Going so soon?”
“I have to.”
“You can’t go now,” he pleaded. I pinched his nose.
“You don’t know what kind of husband I have! He’ll kill you first, and then me. Don’t make the mistake of coming after me, ever. Don’t write, either, or call.”
“But I am crazy for you. I’ve lost my mind.”
“I’m not all there, either, Afzal, but you must understand that—”
”Come, let’s go,” he said, pulling my hands.
“Where to?”
“Somewhere far, far away. Australia? My sister lives there.”
“But, my darling, I am tied to the family upstairs.”
“Leave them.”
“I can’t. What would happen to Haroon?”
“Why are you thinking about him?”
“Who else is there to take care of him?”
“I don’t understand, Jhumur. Don’t you love me?”
“What do you think?”
“At times I think you do, but at other times I’m not so sure. Tell me, truly, do you love that old bugger husband of yours?”
“We married for love.”
“I’m sure he can’t make you happy. At least in bed.”
“He couldn’t earlier, but now—”
“Was that why you took a walk these last few days?” I giggled. “Why are you laughing? Why come to me if your husband satisfies you and you love him?” His face had turned pale.
“You wouldn’t understand, ” I said, kissing him tenderly on the tip of his nose. He stopped smiling and his brow gathered into a frown. I couldn’t explain. I couldn’t tell him that my attraction to him had morphed into something else, a dream of revenge. I couldn’t explain that my infidelity to my husband was not about loving another man.
“I’ll come tomorrow,” I said.
“When?”
“I can’t say. I’ll come when I find time. Stay in, will you?” I smiled at him, and quickly left.
That night I told Haroon I had severe stomach cramps.
“What’s going on with your insides? We must get you to a doctor. You’re ill so much these days.”
The next day I had a splitting headache. I swallowed five aspirin right in front of
Haroon. “You’re getting a migraine,” he said.
“I think so too,” I said in a feeble voice. The next day I got sick from eating food that had gone off and was feverish again the day after.
Afzal stayed in the flat throughout the week, and I saw to it that he did. After each visit, I’d seduce him with the promise of my next arrival. “You don’t know how much I love you,” he would say.
“How much?”
“So much that I can, with impunity, turn away advances made by other beautiful women.”
“Really? I hardly believe that. You’ll seduce the first woman to stand naked before you, whoever she is. You want me to go away with you, but what if you come across a beauty other than the upstairs bou, what then?”
Afzal’s face took on a serious expression and he lit a cigar. Blowing smoke rings, he said, “Something terrible happened a few days ago.”
“What?”
“Sebati came into my room in the middle of the night dressed only in a negligee. Then she took it off and lay down beside me, completely naked.”
“What are you saying?” I sat upright.
“‘Why are you here, Boudi,’ is what I said. And she said, ‘I’ve come to the end of my tether.’”
“Why do you think she said that?”
“I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to. I scolded her and sent her back to her bed. I can’t stay here anymore. Anwar would commit suicide if he found out.” Afzal was looking at me with those irresistible, wanton eyes.
“Why did Sebati come to you? You must have done something to encourage her!” I got dressed quickly and ran upstairs.
My breast bore the marks of Afzal’s love bites, and try as I could, I couldn’t prevent Haroon from noticing them. Throwing my sari aside, he rubbed his face against the marks.
“What’s all this?”
“What do you mean?”
“All these red patches on your breasts.”
“Love bites, I guess,” I said, laughing loudly to take cover in sarcasm. Haroon laughed too. “No hope of that really!” I added. “It must have happened in my dreams when an old lover came and kissed me.”
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