by Kim Kellas
The stage had to be built and the grounds made ready for the expected hordes of people from surrounding villages and, just as the work began, a feud broke out between the uncles and he had to intervene.
Unsurprisingly, it was all about money. Fadil felt aggrieved that his brother-in-law hadn’t repaid a debt from three years ago, while the uncle concerned disputed that there ever was a debt. Sadhan read the riot act; Fadil begged for forgiveness and asked him for the money instead.
In the meantime, the aunties decided only the best cows should be sacrificed, and this would cost hundreds, and then one evening Grandmother had a minor fit. She’d been eating way too much betel nut, though she’d been warned to lay off it, and had an attack of screaming abdabs that terrified the younger ones and threw the household into chaos.
In the final few days the house was full of people. Aunties and uncles came to call, and many of the older ladies from the village. The mehndi happened in a whirlwind, and more food was produced in a single night than Aila had seen in a week at the restaurant. In a moment of conciliation she offered to help out. Bhabani put her on kitchen duty and she made a hundred and twenty-seven samosas.
‘Once again the electricity has gone. So here I am writing with a rechargeable lamp and yet again women spent hours making food that just gets plundered while the uncles sit round arguing over money. Money’s the thing in this house; in this country, I suppose. I saw something else today. My younger cousin got beaten with a stick for going into the jungle on her own. She’s only six! But I also saw how much determination – or should I say fight she had in her. She wouldn’t give in. She wouldn’t cry. That’s the spirit. I felt sad and proud of her at the same time. If I had a child, she’d be just like that.
Got a text from the club! ‘We wish all our friends a happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year’. A blanket text but hey, Merry Christmas, me. I managed to get a message to Neil. I can’t expect them to hold my job open forever. Best case scenario – I’m home in a week. Worse case? I lose my job. Deal with that after the wedding. Roll on Wednesday.’
The morning of the wedding saw her brother up and dressed hours before the Nikah in his white cotton dhoti and traditional pagree wrapped round his head, while women bustled about laying plates of food. Flashing lights had been hung over the front porch to proclaim the celebrations and, outside, trestle tables were set up beneath the orchard trees, with webs of coloured lights draped round the branches. The wedding passed without a hitch, the banquet ran its course and at the end of the night Mazid led his new bride inside and Aila retired to her room.
‘Not much longer now. Should I speak to Dad about the return flights? Feel a bit mean hassling him. He’s so happy here. It’s where he belongs. Hell though this place is, I do love seeing him as he should be. Not the slave to a burning oven.’
In the morning she managed to steal more time, to continue with the diary without everyone crawling over her until she became aware of her father in the doorway.
“Get dressed please and put a sari on. There are people coming to see you,” he said and Aila barely had to time to dress before four women walked in and sat on her bed. She dropped her eyes.
“Are you keeping well?” the first one said.
“I’m strong and healthy now. Nothing to complain about.”
Then another spoke. “Does your mother wear trousers and tops at home?”
“No, auntie, she wears a sari.”
“How tall is she?” the one with bright hennaed hair asked and put an arm around her. “Stand up Munni,” she said while she lifted the hem of her sari and examined her feet.
“May I sit next to her?” the old one asked moving towards her. She took Aila’s hands and turned them over carefully in her own, studying her fingers. “How do you do Wudu with those nails?”
“I will cut them.” She knew she’d been subjected to a formal examination and had been drilled since childhood in the right responses to give. So while they talked she made tea, and they watched her every move until they’d seen enough.
As they left, she thought, it’s no surprise this would happen. Her father would of course be making approaches to other families of her caste while they were here. If that was the case, though, it was unlikely he’d be thinking of a match from London. Her train of thought was interrupted by the presence of two uncles in her room; there being no such thing as knocking first. She knew what was expected and salaamed them both in turn.
“So Munni, have you eaten?”
“No I haven’t yet but I’m fine,” she said, careful to show she wasn’t greedy and always thinking about food. “Would you like some tea?” she asked knowing they would listen to her feet to hear how heavily she walked and, as she poured the tea, she couldn’t help overhearing. They seemed to be organising when the wedding would be, the date of the Sinifan and how much gold – and land would be given to her. Sinifan? Why are they talking about an engagement? Must be that she was being put through the motions of another proposal. There’d be time to sort it out later.
When Mazid appeared she spoke in a rush. “Oh my God, you won’t believe what’s been going on in here.”
But he cut her short. “I’ve got someone with me.” A tall thin man followed him into the room and he said, “May I present Gourab?”
In the instant before she lowered her eyes again Aila recognised the janitor and couldn’t understand why he appeared to chat with her brother like a long-lost friend. They talked about his hobbies and interests, his dreams and ambitions and Aila felt grateful for the veil that hid her laughter until Fadil returned and said the words that chilled her. “Whatever your answer is, tell your father.”
This cannot be real; this can’t be happening, she thought. Sadhan appeared at the door. “That was so funny, Dad. What’s wrong with these people?” Her voice came out small and strangled.
“You can’t say no. We’ve already said yes. You will be married on Friday. The mehndi will be tomorrow.” He closed the door.
The whole family went out to celebrate that evening, leaving Aila alone. The walls in her room slid into screams and the rest of the night passed in tortured sheets. She came to as the sun rose and heard banging downstairs. Like fists on a distant door. She heard what sounded like hammering in a far room but couldn’t make sense of it.
That afternoon she was told to put the lime green blouse underneath the sari they had bought, as the sleeves weren’t long enough. There wasn’t time to have it made properly. The mehndi passed in a blur. She sat in the centre of the main family room on a mound of cushions with her face covered while people milled around chatting and eating. Henna paste was brought in and someone put two dots on her hands. Just two blobs, like dried blood on her palms. No artistry, no skill, and no mother.
The day of her wedding felt strange. A merciless sun hung by a thread in the flat afternoon sky and alone in her room it was hard to breathe. The house was filled with the sound of flip-flops slapping over stone floors. A crimson sari had been laid out on her bed. Decidedly not Benharasi silk, it smelled of bleached incense and scratched against her skin as she wrapped the cotton behind her and tucked it in at her right hip. The door opened and Bhabani stared inside. Aila flung a length of cotton over her chest, and the old lady hobbled out, satisfied things were in hand.
She finished dressing and sat back down on the bed. The tikka lay in its box. Red gold against polyester white padding and beside this her father had put the choker necklace and earrings he’d chosen. She examined the filigree in her fingers: a simple pattern; lightweight; easy to wear. All this was just as well, because there was no-one around to help.
Surely a mother should be here to clasp the necklace and position the tikka in her hair? She pushed the bangles up her arm, one by one. “I want Mum,” she said when Sadhan came back into her room. “The photographer is here. At least brush your hair, and take this.” He gave her a bright
pink dupatta to cover her face when they finished.” Your mother’s ill. Let her rest.”
A flash of self-preservation made Aila decide to paint her nails, as a sign of that time of the month. At home, her father never bothered to actually count the days or the frequency her nails went crimson. It had been useful during Ramadan.
A camera crew trouped into her room and told her to pose before the Nikah began. She stood with hands clasped then walked to the glass and looked out the window in the classic bridal pose of one looking into the future. Next came a pose of prayer and the ever-popular seated side view of the body to the camera. When Bhabani and Sobia appeared, she was almost glad to see them, if only for a break from the remorseless snapping. Her sister-in-law of three days ushered them out and closed the door behind them.
“Munni, can you help me?” she said.
“What is it that you want of me?”
“Could you do my face please, with makeup the way you do yours? I have no experience with that sort of thing. I would really like it if you could.”
Aila opened the red bag again and applied herself to powdering her sister-in-law’s skin and deepening her eyes with pencil and kohl, losing herself in the task, while her own face stayed completely devoid of makeup.
Bhabani rose to open the door. “It’s time,” she said and an Imam strode in, followed by two people she didn’t know, but assumed were there to witness the Nikah. He recited the prayers in a mixture of Arabic and Bengali that Aila couldn’t translate, then in a gravel voice said, “Do you accept?”
She heard people breathing and felt someone hit her back. “Say ‘I accept’. Say it,” but then, from across the room, her brother shouted, “Leave her alone please!” and he tried to move towards her. Bhabani pulled the dupatta away from her face and hissed in her ear: “Do it. Do it now”
“Kobul,” she heard herself say, “I accept” and then all the backs turned as everyone left and the room emptied, as though a plug had been pulled, and down in the grounds she heard the shouts ring out like a fanfare. ‘She’s accepted. It’s done,’ while she stayed rooted to the spot.
Mazid, though, had stayed behind. He took her arm and helped her walk to the bed where she sat unsteadily down. “Affa, Affa, are you all right? Here, lean on me.”
“Am I ‘all right’? Like I’ve had a rough day at work or a bit of a head cold. I don’t think I am all right and don’t ‘Affa’ me. You knew, didn’t you, Maz?”
Then she reached for her phone and typed, ‘I am just this ten minutes past married. I am heart broken. They have broken me,’ and pressed send.
Some while later, he led her downstairs, as the banquet had begun. With the Nikah over, there had been a collective sigh of relief and they couldn’t wait to tuck into a well-earned feast; steaming plates of rice and lamb, samosas and chicken were handed up and down the tables, as the chatter rose and the goodwill flowed.
Aila mounted the dais to the sounds of clapping and cheering and sat on the right side of her husband. The veil covered her entire face, except for her eyes, which became a blessing of disguise when she had to engage in the vows and various rituals of a traditional walima.
But after the exchange of garlands, Aila refused to eat the sweet from the same spoon as her husband and when told to take his hand, she found herself unable to lift her arm and Mazid had to put her limp wrist in his simian paws.
Just below the dais, they’d placed a tray for gifts of gold or coins. A trickle of people passed by and, from behind the veil, Aila watched her husband accept the blessings of the elders in her family, while the pile of coppery gold glinted in the lantern light. She had an urge to kick the tray across the fields and far away. In London a mobile screen lit up.
The evening waned and it seemed the walima had at last come to an end, so Aila thought maybe she’d escape back to the house, get rid of the wretched veil and find out what had happened to her mother. She looked past the tables towards the side of the house and, at the back of a group of hijabs, she saw a head, bobbing from side to side, and knew it was Nessa. She looked so tiny and she hadn’t changed out of the old blue sari she wore around the house.
“Mum,” she whispered. ”Mum,” she shouted and she saw her mother’s hand waving. But before either of them could move, someone grabbed Aila’s hand and led her to a waiting car, at the front the house and she heard her mother sobbing, as they closed the door.
Sadhan ran out. “I’ll come back tonight and get you,” he shouted as the car pulled away. Gourab was already in the back seat with Mazid buckled up beside him. In the front, Gourab’s sister said how beautiful Munni was, and how lucky to have a sister-in-law from London. Then someone added that she might be beautiful but she couldn’t talk. ‘What’s the use of a bride that won’t speak?’ and they all laughed, except Mazid. Aila thought of her cousin. She took the beating and didn’t cry, so Aila wouldn’t either.
When the car stopped she stepped out under the thick black sky. Her mother-in-law waited outside the house. Aila felt chilled to depths of her being and realised she hadn’t eaten, drunk or spoken, but she managed to calm the shaking enough to walk through the open courtyard, past the tethered dog and the hen cages, and into the house.
The front room was full of people – friends of her husband and more photographers and a table had been laid with sherbets and cakes. “Come, you must have something,” Gourab’s mother said and she handed her a goblet. Behind her, Gourab hissed, “You can’t refuse the food your mother-in-law offers you.” She knew to take three sips of the ceremonial drink and, as the gritty liquid hit her throat, she remembered what Shaf had said, but then her legs buckled and she reached for Mazid, just before they gave way underneath her.
He managed to drag her to a bedroom where she felt her body collapse and fall. He rolled her on one side and tried to tuck her arms into what she recognised as a recovery position, and wrapped his scarf round her shoulders, as violent shakes took over her body.
Other people seemed to have followed them into the room and heads loomed over her. She heard her brother telling them to leave her alone, but they wanted pictures with the husband and then there was someone lying behind her on the bed. No one seemed to notice the spiders crawling up the wall. She tried to speak, to warn Mazid about the spiders, but her mouth wouldn’t work and her mind shut down.
Someone slapped her face and shook her shoulder. Sadhan wanted her to get up. He’d come to take her home. She tried to sit, but her head wouldn’t lift and even with his help, her arms wouldn’t work either. So he wrapped his sinewy arms around her and lifted her off the bed, while Gourab watched from the other side of the room.
Downstairs she heard wailing as her father carried her out. “This is outrageous. You can’t take the bride away on the wedding night.”
He stopped at the front door. “I can’t leave my daughter in a house with no bathroom. She’s not accustomed to that. I will return later for my son-in-law.”
As they left the wailing rose behind them. “Nothing’s going to happen, now. Nothing’s going to happen. She’s the cousin of the bad sister’s husband. What do you expect?”
A good yield
The New Year saw Sheikh Hasina sworn in as Prime Minister. She promised to find the people who killed her father and to bring the Islamicist party to justice, although everyone said she was just as corrupt as the rest of them and the system would never change.
Mazid and Sobia became the great success story and with any luck, the aunties were heard to say, there’d be a pregnancy to cement things. Aila, however became ‘a gaping wound that showed no sign of healing.’ Her skin started to flake and hair fell out in clumps wherever she walked; then Gourab moved into her room one night.
She lay in bed fully clothed and wide awake, vigilant for the hand under the sheet that crept towards her thigh. “You’re beautiful,” he said as the leg moved away.
“Can yo
u give it a rest and just listen? Try to understand it’s very different in England. People get to know each other first, even in arranged marriages; you spend time together. You at least get to see each other in person.”
He rolled towards her. “You saw my photo and said I was handsome.”
“You what?”
“Your brother told me it was the first thing you said.”
“Oh, please.” She moved the hand off her stomach and fled back to the bathroom. Outside, the crickets screamed. It would be first light soon.
‘The Janitor’s in my room. In the bedroom they built for me. This morning he found me in the chair. I must have nodded off. He tore my hair. I punched him. I haven’t slept for three days. How could my own father think this is the best he could do for me? Am I that fat and ugly? I’m his only daughter. He should have given me the world to the extent that he could. He should have given me my prince. Instead I got a Gourab. I think deep down if Dad had found a decent British guy I would have been happy. But I died inside to think this is what he thinks is the best choice for me. Mum’s not well. They locked her in the bedroom during the mehndi and the Nikah. Nailed planks across the door. I think she died a little inside too.’
Even her father was on edge. Just before lunch he found her wandering around the kitchen and asked what was happening. She seized the chance to deal with Gourab in daylight hours, and suggested perhaps he should return to his job in Dhaka, just until things sorted themselves out. When she showed him the bruises on her chest, he had to agree. So Gourab was driven away and the pulse of things slowed down again.
Mealtimes punctuated the days. But Aila refused to eat and, when everyone gathered downstairs, she’d go up to her room, lock the door and, kneeling down, reach into the back of the bottom drawer and bring out a carefully bundled scarf, which she’d unwrap on her lap and touch the silver blade of the kitchen knife.