The women were made to line up and then file into Tilak Marg Police Station, a low white-brick building that sat behind concrete barricades. Police officers in khaki uniforms and berets milled outside, their rifles slung casually across their waists. Jezmeen avoided eye contact with them, focusing instead on walking as steadily as possible.
Oh my god, oh my god.
Who was saying that? Jezmeen understood the sentiment: she felt as if somebody had pressed pause on her day while she was addressing the crowd less than an hour ago, and hit play on a nightmare instead. Had any of the women expected this?
In the station, things moved quickly. All the women lined up at the front desk and gave their names and details to an officer who recorded them by hand in a logbook. They were asked to surrender their possessions—purses, phones, and jewelry—in large Ziploc bags which were passed down from the front of the line. Jezmeen got to the front of the line before she had to give up her phone. “Am I able to call my consulate?” she asked. Even her voice sounded foreign to her here. “I’m a British citizen.”
The officer looked up. He had thick eyebrows and a mustache that nearly covered his top lip. “Name?” he asked.
“Jezmeen Shergill,” she said, her voice more level than she felt inside. She heard a ripple of murmurs from the women behind her as they realized she wasn’t Polly Mishra.
“Quiet,” the officer called over Jezmeen’s shoulder. “Your passport?”
“I don’t have it,” she said. “It’s back in my hotel. I’ve got a picture of it on my phone, though.”
Static and muffled commands burst from the transistor radio on the officer’s desk. He picked up his walkie-talkie and muttered something back. “Could I just use my phone for a minute? I could get the picture from there.”
The officer nodded and returned to his call. Jezmeen took out her phone and went straight to her contacts list. Rajni. She sent her a text in all caps:
“RAJ I’M IN JAIL NOT A JOKE SEND HELP PLEASE. TILAK MARG POLICE STATION. CALL CONSULATE.”
She pressed send and shot a look at the officer. He waved her over to one side and called up the next woman in line. Jezmeen found her passport page in an email she had sent to herself when she was applying for her Indian visa. She showed it to the officer, who took a long time scrutinizing the page and recording all the details before asking for the rest of her possessions to be placed in the Ziploc bag. Then he called out to another officer, who said, “Come with me.”
Entering the hallway, Jezmeen felt the tremor in her legs again. Only when the officer told her to hurry up did she realize she was walking in tiny steps, as if afraid of what might be around the corner. Oh my god, oh my god. The officer showed her to a small room with a flat wooden bench. There were six more women in this room—all of the girls who had been in line before Jezmeen, and more to come. How would they possibly fit them all in here?
“You want to go to the toilet, you have to call for one of the female officers to bring you,” he said, perhaps noticing the way that Jezmeen was shifting her feet. She didn’t have to go to the toilet, though; she was trying to keep her legs from going numb with fear. “Do you know how long—” She didn’t get to finish her question before the officer turned his back and walked away.
Oh my god, oh my god.
Jezmeen realized that the voice was hers.
Once Shirina entered the air-conditioned café, she never wanted to leave. She was slightly embarrassed at how poorly she had taken to the heat this morning, to the sun beating down on her face and the sweat making her hair stick in curlicues to the back of her neck. She had been the one to suggest heading to the nearest shopping mall after their morning of watching the sunrise at India Gate. They didn’t even make it far enough to get to the mall, stopping the driver once they spotted this café in a strip of upscale boutiques and restaurants of Khan Market.
“I want the most iced drink they have,” Rajni said, staring at the menu. “In fact, I’d pay just to have a tall cup of ice to rub on my forehead.”
Shirina ordered a crushed-ice fruit drink and found a pair of plush armchairs by the window. Again, as she sank into the seat, she was so relieved to be sitting that she thought she might never rise again. She closed her eyes and saw patterns of light dancing around in the darkness.
At India Gate, she and Rajni had walked quietly among the early-bird tourists to find the best spot to catch the sun. They batted away the young boys who tried to sell them flimsy plastic toys and selfie sticks, and the ice-cream vendor who rattled off a list of flavors from a lopsided cart. Behind him stood the grand war memorial with the names of fallen soldiers inscribed into sandstone. There was an air of solemnity to the place, even as the city had already begun to stir. Mum had been right about the sunrise here being spectacular—the shifting hues of pink and orange, the wings of black kites swiftly crossing that canvas of changing light, the shimmering sun emerging triumphant despite the haze of the city. Shirina had thought of this item on the itinerary as Mum’s simplest and easiest request but as she watched the day begin, she couldn’t help thinking about Mum’s last moments. Had she written this letter knowing that she would die before the sun came up the next day?
The coffee machine whirred behind the counter nearby. It was normal to feel depleted by the heat; in a way, the sun was a good thing—it gave Shirina an excuse to return to her air-conditioned hotel room, sink beneath the cool sheets, and do nothing for the rest of the day.
Rajni returned and set down her iced coffee on the table. Beads of condensation speckled the plastic cup and dripped onto the table’s surface, forming a perfect ring. She took a sip from her straw and sighed, shutting her eyes. She looked the perfect picture of peace until she voiced her thoughts:
“I wonder what the hell Jezmeen is up to.”
Shirina had no doubt that Jezmeen had found her own way to occupy her time today. She didn’t want to return to the subject of Jezmeen’s truancy again. All the way in the taxi, Rajni had fumed. “What is wrong with her?” she had asked, not looking for a response.
“Let’s just forget about it,” Shirina said. For different reasons, she had been annoyed with Jezmeen as well. She really should know better than to drink like that. It’s disrespectful, she’d said to Rajni, but she was over it now—the heat had compressed her anger into something small and manageable. This morning, Jezmeen’s bloodshot eyes and the stench of stale wine on her breath had reminded Shirina of what her mother-in-law must have seen when she opened the door that night and found her slouched against the taxi driver. She was angry at Jezmeen for making the same mistake over and over again. Surely one time was enough? It was for Shirina.
There was a tapping sound on the glass window. Shirina turned to see a man dressed in slacks which were frayed at the hems and a dress shirt missing buttons. His skin was caked in soot. She met his eyes, two gray, watery pools, and turned away. Within moments, a barista hurried out to the pavement to shoo him away. Shirina watched him slowly shuffle to another shop entrance, where a security guard held his palm up in a stern rejection. If he kept on wandering like this, trying his luck, he’d surely reach a place of some charity—a Sikh temple perhaps.
“Do you think they eventually get shooed away from the gurdwara if they keep showing up, day after day?” Shirina asked.
“That’s not how it’s supposed to be,” Rajni replied, watching the man as well. “But I haven’t noticed many beggars at the temple, even though the city’s teeming with them.”
Inside and outside. The boundary between the temple and the rest of the world—and what was permissible in both spaces—had become a bit clearer to Shirina today. Yesterday, still under the fog of jet lag and fatigue, she hadn’t noticed so much that people were kinder and gentler within the temple walls, more considerate under God’s supervision. They fell into line and waited patiently for their food. They greeted each other with respectful nods. It was at India Gate this morning that she noticed all of these structures dissolving i
nto the chaos of Delhi. Men roamed in hungry packs and whispered “hello” in a way that made it sound like a threat. She and Rajni had held their bags in front of them, aware of how vulnerable they were to being snatched.
Shirina sipped her cool drink and watched well-heeled customers lining up at the counter, repeating their orders over the hissing milk steamer. There was a young couple sitting at the next table. Shirina knew they were newlyweds because the woman’s forearm was nearly completely covered in glittering red bangles. Shirina wondered how she navigated Delhi’s wobbling paths in those spiked heels and then realized that she probably never walked anywhere in them. Outside the café, where the begging man had been standing before, now there was a clear view of the car park and its rows of big, expensive cars.
The couple must have noticed Shirina staring—they stared back, and Shirina felt her face flushing with embarrassment. It wasn’t her first time being caught looking at other couples; she often watched other men and women together and wondered if they were doing something that she and Sehaj should be doing. It was probably an arranged marriage thing, even though she and Sehaj had gotten to know each other online before setting the wedding date. There was some insecurity with wondering how to behave spontaneously. Is this what couples do? she wondered all the time, using other people as reference points. At one point, she became quite addicted to reruns of American sitcoms that featured meddling in-laws. She was relieved to make light of the petty arguments and the disparaging remarks about the daughter-in-law’s cooking. In recent months, whenever Mother enticed her, Shirina was able to smile along to the laugh track that played in her mind.
Shirina looked away and took another long sip of her drink. The shock of the ice made her head throb. “New bride,” Rajni said, nodding at the woman. “I never wore mine.”
“Why not?” Shirina asked.
“They don’t really go with a blazer and a pencil skirt.”
The bangles were incongruous with the woman’s slick denim jeans and tight black tank top, but people here would understand that she was announcing her status as a new bride, rather than overaccessorizing. People here would understand. Shirina felt relief at that thought. It would be nice, not explaining her culture. “I wore mine,” she said. “All twenty-one days.” Each time somebody on the train or in the supermarket gave her a curious look for wearing such ornate jewelry with her everyday clothes, she wished they knew she had a reason for doing so.
Rajni looked surprised. “Really?” She didn’t ask why, but Shirina heard it anyway. She could practically see the question mark hanging in the air. It was the same when she told her sisters that she’d arranged her own marriage through a matrimonial website. Why? They itched to ask. How would she have explained wanting a new beginning—a definition of “family” that was wholesome and content—without insulting them? She didn’t really think she’d find what she was looking for so quickly, but once she registered and created her profile, she saw that there were abundant opportunities to become somebody new. From London to Bangkok to Nairobi to Wellington, there was the thrill of clicking on each potential husband, and the excitement of knowing that she was shaping her own fate. The thrill returned to her every time she saw her bangles.
“I was sad to take them off,” Shirina said. “I could have worn them for much longer.”
“Mum was not pleased that I didn’t wear mine,” Rajni said. “She was also annoyed that my mehndi faded so quickly, because that’s supposed to be bad luck.”
Shirina knew that superstition well from all the online discussions. If your mehndi faded quickly, you would have a cruel mother-in-law. Modern brides joked about it and posted pictures of their stained hands on the arranged marriage forum. “Very accurate—the woman can’t stand my cooking,” one woman posted, with a picture of her faded hands. Lemon, Sugar, and Water! was the title of that thread, inspired by the mixture that brides sprinkled on their hands to keep their mehndi color strong.
“My mehndi stayed dark for a really long time,” Shirina said. She couldn’t help feeling a bit proud. She didn’t even have to use the lemon mixture.
“There are millions of these little sayings about your fate as a married woman,” Rajni said. “I remember all this confusion over which foot I used to step into the house first, because it would determine the course of my relationship with my husband. First I stepped in with my right foot and half the room cried out that I was supposed to use my left. I switched to the left foot and the other half of the room said it was wrong.”
“What happens if you use the wrong foot?”
Rajni shrugged. “Who knows? It’s just one of those superstitions that doesn’t mean anything. The happiness of a marriage isn’t dictated by such arbitrary things. You would know. It’s work.”
Since Shirina got engaged, she noticed that Rajni liked giving her marriage advice. It was one thing they finally had in common, and in Jezmeen’s absence, they were free to discuss their husbands without making her feel left out. Sometimes she opened her emails to find links to articles recommended by Rajni in her in-box: “10 Things That Married Couples Should Say to Each Other and Secrets to a Happy Marriage—Advice from Three Couples Married over 50 Years.” Shirina usually skimmed them, then waited an appropriate amount of time so it would seem like she had paid close attention, and then replied, “This is great!” or “Loved this—so true!”
“Believe me,” Rajni continued. “When you’ve been married as long as I have, you’ll understand. Do you remember that article I sent you about crazy things that couples can do to keep their marriage alive?”
“Yeah,” Shirina said. “I think I stopped reading after wife-swapping came up.”
“That was one of the suggestions?” Rajni asked.
“Don’t you read the articles you send me?”
“I read the first couple of tips. One of them was ‘Don’t talk to each other for forty-eight hours.’ A vow of silence, so you can appreciate each other without conversation.”
“How did that work for you?”
“I heard every other sound, and it drove me bananas. Kabir’s breathing, his phone pinging with notifications. I think we were only four hours into the silence thing when I told him I’d had enough.”
Shirina forced a smile. She was all too familiar with the feeling of being encased in silence in her marriage. Four hours? Try four days.
“Well, I’m relieved that you weren’t suggesting that Sehaj and I become swingers,” she said.
“Oh, don’t be so quick to dismiss those wife-swapping parties,” Rajni said.
Shirina raised an eyebrow. Schoolteacher Rajni and accountant Kabir, a pair of swingers? She almost began to laugh at the thought, then she noticed Rajni peering over her drink, looking a bit offended. “Sorry,” Shirina said. “I knew there were parties like that in the Indian community in London, I just didn’t really . . .”
“You didn’t believe they were for real? Me neither,” Rajni said. “Until I was invited to one.”
“Really? When? By whom?” Shirina couldn’t contain her surprise. At the next table, the couple looked up sharply. She ducked out of their view.
“A friend,” Rajni said. “Meenakshi—remember her from my wedding? Oh, you wouldn’t, of course. You were so young. We’re still good friends. Her younger daughter was born about two weeks after Anil. They used to have playdates together.” Rajni looked wistful. “I thought Anil and Sahiba would make a fine couple one day.”
“There’s still a chance,” Shirina said. Rajni cleared her throat. “Hmm, yes,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “Anyway, Meenakshi was the one who told me about these holiday houses that Punjabi families book together over the summer. It all looks very innocent but in the evening, when the kids are all tucked away in bed, there’s an agreement between the adults to exchange partners.”
It sounded very organized. Shirina wondered if there was a roster involved, or if everyone was just agreeable to moving from person to person like playing a game of
musical chairs. “Were you ever tempted?” Shirina asked. “To see what it was like?”
Rajni shuddered. “I couldn’t imagine switching partners so casually and then going back to my husband after that. Surely the aftermath would be awkward? Not to mention seeing those other people in daylight again.”
“I would think so,” Shirina said.
“Meenakshi said it did wonders for her sex life, though. I listened to her stories. They were pretty wild.” Rajni smiled. “I’ll admit, it made me a bit curious, because things had . . . stagnated a bit.”
“That’s pretty normal, though, isn’t it?” Shirina asked. She was careful to sound casual.
“They say a sexless marriage is when you have it less than five times in a year,” Rajni said. “We had it more times than that.”
Six? Ten? Rajni wasn’t going to give an exact number, of course, but Shirina could also picture her discovering the minimum number on a therapist’s web page and aiming to surpass it to break the threshold and be safe.
“Sexless marriage,” Shirina said. “You’re basically roommates, then.” She measured the incredulity in her tone. This is not something that would happen to me.
“It’s easy to go awhile without it,” Rajni said. “You’re young newlyweds now, so it seems impossible, but life does get in the way. Plus we’d been trying for another child for years and it seemed like all the fun had gone out of it.”
“What did Kabir think of the suggestion?”
“He wasn’t keen,” Rajni said. “Neither was I. Meenakshi didn’t mention it again. I think she was a little embarrassed afterward. I suppose she was quite convinced that I’d say yes. But you wouldn’t believe who brought it up again.”
“Who?” Shirina asked.
The Unlikely Adventures of the Shergill Sisters Page 11