by Sabina Khan
“There was a lot of food at the party, Mom,” I said. “I think we’ll just go to bed now.”
Up in my room, Shaila helped me pack. Even though I still had a few days before I left, I wanted to be prepared. The waiting was making me nervous, and I needed to keep myself busy.
“Rukhsana,” Shaila said, handing me the mask I got for Aamir. “I was telling Alam about your situation and he offered to drive you to the airport.”
“That’s so sweet of him. Was he shocked when you told him?”
“A little, but he thinks you’re really brave to do what you’re doing.”
We finished packing the backpack, stuffing it with only the essentials: clothes, my gifts for Ariana and Aamir, toiletries, and of course my hair straightener. I never went anywhere without it.
After Shaila went to her own room, I went to check on Nani.
I assumed she would be asleep by now, so I was surprised to see her prostrated on her prayer mat. When she was done she beckoned me to come in. I helped her up and got her settled in an armchair. Then I made myself comfortable by her feet on the cool tile floor and she put her hand on my head, running her fingers through my hair.
“Your mom told me that they are looking for a husband for you.”
I nodded, wondering how my life had taken such a ridiculous turn.
“Are you happy with this decision? I thought you were excited to go to university in September.”
“I’m not happy with it at all. Mom and Dad are being completely unreasonable.”
“Rukhsana, go to my cupboard and get me my wedding veil. Do you remember where it is?”
I nodded as I stood up and opened the large teak armoire that stood against the wall across from her bed. On the bottom shelf, wrapped in velvet, was my grandmother’s wedding veil. It was a deep maroon chiffon shot through with gold thread. As a child I used to play dress up with it whenever I visited Nani. She would put makeup on my face and then draw little decorative dots from my forehead, above my brows, and all the way down to my cheeks with sandalwood paste. Afterward, she’d place the veil on my head and tell me I looked like a real Bengali bride. Then she would dream out loud about dancing at my wedding and all the sweets she would eat.
Now as I handed the veil to her, I felt a pang of guilt because I knew that day would never come. She unwrapped it, motioning for me to move closer to her, and placed it gently on my head. As she leaned back to take a better look, she picked up a silver-framed hand mirror from the small table beside her and turned it toward me so that I could see my reflection.
Dark curls peeked out from under the veil framing my face. For a fleeting moment, I pictured myself as a traditional bride, marrying someone my parents had chosen. But I knew I could never go through with it.
I decided that I would tell Nani everything. I wanted her to know that I was planning to leave and why.
“Rukhsana,” she said before I could open my mouth. “There is something I have never told you. But now you are old enough to understand.” She took the veil off my head.
“Do you know why I have kept this veil all these years?” she said.
“Because you wore it at your wedding.”
She shook her head. “No, ammu. I kept it as a reminder to never let anyone force me into a life I didn’t want.”
“When I was a very young girl,” Nani continued, “my parents married me off to an older man because they had very little money and wanted to spend it on my brother rather than waste it on me. The man they found was thirty-five and had a mean temper. But he had a business and a big house in the city. I didn’t understand what had happened until it was too late, but even then, there was nothing I could do.”
My eyes overflowed with tears as I reached out to hold her hand.
“Nani, I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t. Why should you? I could never talk about it with anyone. But I’m telling you now because I don’t want you to ever endure what I had to. You must never let anyone take your happiness from you. You are young and strong and you must fight.”
“I don’t know how, Nani. They don’t want to understand. Nobody will.” I wiped my tears with the scarf around my neck.
She gently took my face in her hands. “Rukhsana, tell me what it is that is making you so sad.”
I shook my head. “I can’t tell you, Nani.”
“Why not, my angel? What is so bad that you can’t tell me?”
I couldn’t look her in the eyes, afraid of the disappointment I would see there.
“Is it a boy?” she asked. “You love him and he is not Bengali?”
I shook my head again.
“Tell me one thing. Are you ashamed of it or just afraid of what I will think?”
I looked at her then. “I’m not ashamed. But I’m afraid you’ll be ashamed of me if you know.”
“My little spring bird,” she said, pulling me into her arms. “If you are not ashamed then it cannot be a bad thing. So why should I be ashamed of you? You are a good girl, my best girl. I will never be ashamed of who you are.”
“I do love someone. But it’s not a boy.” I watched her face carefully, bracing myself for the worst.
She looked confused at first. But she didn’t pull away and she didn’t take her hand off my face. She just nodded slowly.
“Rukhsana,” she finally said. “We are who we are. No one can change that. Just like we cannot change whom we love. I learned that many years ago when I was just a little older than you.”
Fat tears rolled down my face as I turned to kiss my grandmother’s hands. They were the most loving hands in the world to me. I leaned forward and sobbed into her lap. She stroked my hair until there were no more tears left, and my heart felt lighter than it had in a long time.
“You silly girl. You thought I would be ashamed of you? Never. You can never do anything that will make me feel like that.”
“Nani, do you think if you talk to Mom and Dad they would understand?”
I hoped that if her own mother thought it was okay, then maybe Mom would be more likely to accept it.
But Nani shook her head.
“Rukhsana, your mother has always had very strong opinions of right and wrong. She and I did not see eye to eye on many things. No, you must fight this. You cannot allow anyone to change who you are, not even your own parents.”
“Nani. There’s something else.”
“What is it, ammu?” She stroked my hair gently, her hands moving in a familiar rhythm.
“I’m leaving in four days. I can’t stay here, otherwise Mom and Dad are going to keep me trapped here until I agree to marry someone.”
“Yes, you must leave, then. There is no other way,” she said without hesitation. “But if you had left without telling me, it would have broken my heart. I’m happy, Rukhsana, that you have someone who loves you. She must be very special.”
“She is, Nani. I wish you could meet her. I think you would really like her.”
She closed her eyes and nodded.
“How are you getting home?” she said after a moment. “Do you need anything?”
“No, Nani, I’ve booked my flight already. I’ll contact Shaila once I’m back and she’ll let you know. She can show you how to Skype with me.” I put my arms around her and we stayed like that for a long time. I tried to be brave for her sake as well as mine. Because, in all honesty, I knew there was a good chance I might never see her again.
“Rukhsana, there is something I want you to have.” She pointed to a desk that stood by the window. On top lay a wooden box with vines and flowers engraved along the edges.
I brought the box to her and watched as she pulled out a weathered journal.
“This was my diary when I was a young girl,” she said. “I want you to have it. Sometimes when things become too difficult you can read it. I used to write down all my feelings because I couldn’t tell anyone. In those days, we had to keep many secrets,” she said wistfully.
I looked at th
e diary in my hands, my fingers brushing across the soft cover, and wanted to ask about her secrets, but when I looked back up she had closed her eyes again. I could tell she was tired, so I helped her get into bed and stayed with her until she fell asleep.
I went back to my room and sat cross-legged on the bed as I opened the diary. It was bound in burgundy velvet and the pages were yellowed with age. Nani’s handwriting filled page after page with Bengali script, chronicling her life all those years ago. For once I was glad for the years of Bengali classes my parents insisted I attend. As I began to read, my eyes misted over. The first entry was marked with a date.
August 23, 1965
Today a boy’s family came to see me. Ma told me to wear the green-and-gold sari because it made my skin look lighter. She said the groom had dark skin so the family would overlook my dusky complexion. But I overheard Ma and Baba talking in the cowshed. Baba said I was too young, but Ma told him if I was married there would be more food left over for Bhaiya and they could pay for his school. Baba said they were asking for too much dowry. He would have to sell three of his cows to pay for the wedding and another two for the dowry. I was so scared before they came, but the mother was kind. She wanted to see my teeth and she said my breasts were too small. But she wasn’t rough like the other woman who came last month. She pulled my lips back so far the skin tore and bled a little. It was a relief when they rejected me. But Ma beat me that night. Each time the cane sliced the skin on my back, I tried to think of Raju. Raju as he smiled at me when no one was watching. Raju as he plucked mangos from the high branches for me. But today, Ma was happy. At dinner, I got a piece of chicken even though Bhaiya wanted it. Ma told him that I would be gone soon enough and then he would have all the chicken he wanted. I’m so tired now, but I will pray to Allah that this family will say yes to the marriage. If the mother was kind maybe the son will be a good man.
A tear broke free and fell on the page. I hastily wiped it away with my orna. My heart was breaking for my poor nani. I pressed my hands to my eyes for a moment and then continued reading.
I haven’t written for many weeks. I couldn’t, because my mother-in-law is constantly with me. But today she went out to visit her sister who is ill, so I can rest a little bit. My husband has gone to the city for some work. He will not be back until it is dark.
I have been married now for two months. On the day of the wedding, I was so happy because I thought I was going to a nice family. Arif looked very handsome in his white sherwani and turban. Our wedding was very lavish, more than any other one in our small village. But I still heard some of the guests complaining that there was not enough meat in the korma. My mother-in-law gave me a very beautiful red-and-gold sari. I’m sure it must have been very expensive because when I ran my hands over it, the silk was so fine and the gold embroidery so heavy. When they brought me home pride surged through me at the sight of their mansion. Arif and I have our own room and there are two toilets, both inside! This is my home now. But at night, I was very nervous. My monthly bleeding just started this year and Ma told me all women get it because it is Allah’s curse on us. She didn’t explain to me what I should do on my wedding night. When he walked into our bedroom, I began to sweat and my heart pounded loudly in my chest. Arif said I should not be scared because he knows what to do. He gently took off my sari and all the jewelry. When he started to take off my clothes, I felt very shy, so I moved away. He pulled me back and continued to undress me. At first, he kissed me and it was nice. But then his hands were touching me everywhere and I pushed him off. That is when he slapped me so hard I could taste blood on the inside of my cheek. He said I could never push him away. That since he is my husband, I have to be with him whenever he wants. After that, I was still as a statue. When he took off his pants, I was so scared, but I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry when he put his fingers inside, so roughly that I felt burning between my legs. I didn’t cry when he pushed himself inside me, over and over until I couldn’t feel anything except the searing pain of him, his sweat dripping on my face, his teeth as he bit my breasts. I didn’t make a sound when he grunted and collapsed on top of me. Finally, he got off and turned around to go to sleep. I waited until his breathing became steady before I got up to go to the bathroom. I washed off the blood and then I cried.
My tears fell freely now and I quickly shut the diary before they stained the ink. I went to my grandmother’s room and crawled into bed with her. I needed to be near her. I couldn’t imagine what she had endured. How did she live like that for so many years?
My grandfather died before my parents were married, so I’d never met him. Her life must have seemed so long, with no end in sight. This is how I would feel if I married according to my parents’ wishes. I knew now why my grandmother had warned me and why she wanted me to get away. She had been through hell and she wanted to spare me the same fate. I held her tight, careful not to wake her.
I slept listlessly that night and woke up with a pounding headache. I went to look for Shaila and found her putting coconut oil in her hair.
“You look like you could use a good oil massage,” she said when she saw me skulking by her door. “Come here and sit. I’ll put some in your hair.”
My mom used to put coconut oil in my hair when I was little, but once I started school, kids would make fun of the smell. It had been years and I hadn’t realized what I’d been missing.
“This feels amazing,” I said as Shaila massaged the cool oil into my scalp. I felt the tension draining away immediately.
“Don’t you put coconut oil in your hair regularly?” Shaila said with a laugh.
“Are you kidding? I barely have time to wash my hair, dry it, and straighten it before school. It takes too long.” Shaila had twisted my hair into a neat, thick braid and I turned to look at her with envy. “Your hair is so pretty and silky. Mine’s like jute.”
“That’s because you don’t use oil. If you do, yours will be soft and silky too,” Shaila said, gently pushing me to move.
“You should have asked me to do your hair.”
“You can do it next time,” Shaila said. “Oh, hey, there’s an art show at the Alliance Française tonight that I thought would be interesting. What do you think?”
“Sure, that sounds like fun.”
We went to our respective bathrooms to wash the oil out of our hair. I’d forgotten how much time and shampoo it took, but I had to admit my hair had never felt softer. After a quick lunch of khichuri, aloor bhorta, and shrimp dopiaza, we took a rickshaw to the art exhibit. My hair dried quickly in the blazing midday sun and I was relieved when we entered the air-conditioned building.
“I used to take French lessons here, while I was waiting for my A Level results,” Shaila said. “I came to events here all the time back then but haven’t been back since. I forgot how beautiful it was.” I snagged a pamphlet as she led me down a hallway to a large room where the exhibit was being held.
This exhibit was by a local artist, Khurram Aziz, who painted scenes from the Mughal palaces of the twelfth century. I was stunned by the sheer beauty of each piece, the bold colors, and the feeling of being transported to another place and time. There were scenes of the king holding darbaar for his subjects and another where the ladies of the harem were bathing in a secluded spot. There was one in particular that mesmerized me. It was of a man and woman sitting on a grass-covered hilltop, gazing into each other’s eyes, their bejeweled garb indicating that they were royalty. But it was the look of utter devotion that the artist had managed to capture that drew me in.
“Isn’t this breathtaking?” Shaila whispered beside me.
When we arrived back home, we overheard Mom and Nusrat Mami in the middle of an argument in the living room.
“The family is already rich … Why are they asking for so much dowry?” Mom asked as we walked in. They sat on the sofa with an open betel leaf box on the coffee table in front of them. The small containers held the fillings: slivers of areca nut, fennel seeds, rock su
gar, and lime paste. Nusrat Mami spread a tiny dab of lime paste on a betel leaf. She added a pinch of the other ingredients, expertly folded the leaf into a triangle, and popped it in her mouth. Mom’s lips curled in disgust.
“It is normal to ask for something, Zubaida,” Nusrat Mami said after she had chewed for a while. “They probably think you are very rich living in America. You think you have the upper hand here, but you don’t. They will all ask for more simply because you are American now.”
Mom snorted. “We’ll see about that. Half of them are desperate to come to America. Marrying a US citizen is their only chance to get there. They’ll realize it soon enough.”
It amazed me that I had never known this side of my mother. She discussed my worth as if I was a piece of meat. I couldn’t listen to it any longer and went upstairs to check on Nani.
Her words from the diary had stayed with me all day, and there was so much I needed to know.
I found her prostrate on her prayer mat, just finishing up her Maghrib prayer. I waited by the door until she was done and then walked over to help her to her feet. I got her settled into bed and sat on the edge, close to her.
“How was your day today, ammu?” she asked.
“It was good. Shaila and I went to an art show.”
I tried to think of a good way to bring up the diary, but in the end, I realized, there was no easy way to bring up something as horrible as what my nani had been through.
“Nani, I read some of your diary last night,” I began.
Her brow wrinkled with concern. “I was thinking that maybe it was a mistake to give it to you. It is from the worst part of my life.”
“No, Nani, I’m glad that you trusted me enough to share something so personal with me.”
“I thought it might give you strength when you need it most. I can tell that there are difficult times ahead for you.” She took my hand in hers. “You must fight. Even when everyone tells you that you must obey and accept.”
“If I could obey and accept I wouldn’t be in this situation, Nani.”