Seven

by Farzana Doctor

  “And how about you, Shari? How did it affect you?”

  I stare at Fatema, not comprehending. She inhales sharply, then looks startled by her own words.

  “But it didn’t happen to her. Did it?” Zainab looks puzzled.

  “What? What are you saying?” My heart races.

  Fatema pulls a cigarette out of her pack, lights it, and exhales smoke over her shoulder, but the breeze blows it in my face.

  “Tell me! What do you mean ‘how did it affect me’?” Her mocking words are headlamps shining bright into a dark forest. I begin to see the outlines of trees.

  “Shari, don’t get so upset. You’re getting overwrought,” Zainab counsels, alarm in her eyes.

  “So … it happened to me, too?” I grasp the words as they tumble out. I feel Zainab’s hand on shoulder, moist and warm, dampening my T-shirt. Fatema nods.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This is not how it should have come out.” And now her hand is on my other shoulder. It is dry and cool. My two cousins stand like sentries beside me. All I can feel are their palms. Everything else is going numb. Disappearing.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Tasnim and Nani took us to a woman’s flat, someone we didn’t know. This lady was old like a grandmother. There was a large carpet on the floor and the woman put down some sort of sheet over it. I wondered if we were going to be served a meal, but that didn’t make any sense because we’d had lunch before leaving home.” Fatema lights another cigarette, sits on the edge of the sidewalk. Zainab crouches beside her. I stand apart from them; can’t bear to be too close.

  “Zainab went first. Shari and I were taken to a bedroom off the living room where an older girl watched us … her name was Sherbanoo … who knows why I still remember her name, but I do — maybe she was the granddaughter of the cutter. Zainab seemed calm because she was the only one amongst us who appeared to know what was about to happen. I assumed that your mother must have let you in on the secret. Was that true?” Fatema interrupts her storytelling to gaze at Zainab.

  “I think so. I think Mummy talked about it like it was something necessary? That it was about growing up, a rite of passage. But, well, it’s hazy. Although everything you’re saying sounds familiar, but …” Zainab bites her lip, and her eyes well with tears. I look at her numbly, frozen in my ability to reach out to her. Was she beginning to remember? Would I?

  Fatema resumes the story. “Sherbanoo gave us colouring books and crayons. It’s funny, I recall us flipping through the pages of previously coloured-in animal outlines, probably the artwork of other stressed-out seven-year-olds. I refused to pick up a crayon, despite Sherbanoo’s cajoling. You know, I had this feeling that we were being duped.” Her assessment rings true; Fatema has always been the least naive of the three of us.

  “After a short time, your mother brought you back,” she looks at Zainab. “Then she took Shari next. I remember her saying to you,” now she faces me, “‘You don’t want to be left out, do you?’”

  Maasi’s words feel like déjà vu. Fatema continues, “And then Zainab said, ‘It didn’t hurt much, it was just like getting a needle.’ That calmed me, and so I believed I could handle it all fine. But then Shari came back, looking spooked, whining for her mother.” She stubs out her cigarette and I shudder in the night breeze.

  “You know, Shari, you moped and asked when you would go home, back to New Jersey, for many days after.” She looks to me, and I wave her on.

  “Well, it was my turn next, and like an idiot, I think I marched into the living room, almost proudly.”

  I can see her doing that. She was the tough one, the tomboy, the one who barely felt the scrapes and scratches that were perpetually on her elbows and hands.

  “But when they told me to pull down my pants and underwear, I panicked and resisted. The women told me to calm down and then they …” She pauses, reaches into her pack for another cigarette.

  “They held me down by my hands and feet. I kicked and screamed and writhed. I think I kicked the khatna lady in the chin.” She lights her new smoke, inhales deeply. “I’ll never forget it. It was the worst, piercing pain ever. I bled for three days. I wore my mother’s sanitary pads, changing them, one after another. You two hardly bled, from what I could see, but we never talked about it, so I don’t know for sure.”

  Fatema stops, the story finally over. I remember the part about missing my mother at the end of that trip, imagining I might die without her. I know Nani admonished me for crying, told me I had to be a big girl, that my mother wouldn’t like it if she knew I’d been being such a baby. That much I know.

  Now hours later, I lie awake, listening to the even breathing across the room and beside me. I can’t tell whether my cousins are fast asleep or lost inside a similar maze of interior thoughts. I allow my hand to slide down my pelvis and rest over my underwear. A cut was made there thirty-three years ago, according to Fatema. It’s odd to not remember and to know in my heart that her words are true. This story both belongs to me and does not.

  My body, as though finally being given a missing puzzle piece, adjusts and repositions itself under my hand. But it is not an easy fit. My stomach, which loved our dinner, now roils. I have a terrible headache. I’ve popped three pills, and I wait in the darkness for the throbbing around my eyes to subside.

  I have always loved my community, my Dawoodi Bohra community. It’s the place I can return to, the place I belong, the one identity that is sure and strong. I’ve admired my family, and in particular, the women. But tonight I hate it. Hate them. I don’t want any part of it anymore. I want to go home, get out of this awful village. I want my mother. I want my dead father. I want the Edison three-bedroom that’s long been sold. I curl onto my side, press my temples.

  I’ve defended my community. Like so many others, I’ve shrugged about the corrupt men who rule over the flock. I’ve tolerated them, and like so many of us, I haven’t opposed them because they haven’t before interfered with my life directly.

  But now my community feels like nothing because, while the men might have made the rules, it is the women, women I’ve loved, who’ve enforced them.

  This is why I have never had an orgasm. This is why.

  In the dark I think, Did my mother know and not tell me? Did my father? How can I continue to love my maasi now? Can I ever forgive her?

  I spring out of bed, grab my phone, and head out to the hallway, my stomach lurching with the sudden movement. The screen’s blue light sends a shard of pain through my skull. I check the time — it’s just past 1:00 a.m. — and call Murtuza.

  “Honey?” His voice is groggy. Then there is alarm. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Is Zee with you?” I lean against the wall, and then crumple to the floor.

  “Sleeping. Why?”

  “Since I’ve been gone, have you let her out of your sight? Did you leave her with any relatives?”

  “No, we had lunch over at my aunt’s, then we saw the Gate of India. Then we came home. We’ve been mostly at home since. What’s this about?”

  “Please. Please don’t leave her with anyone while I am gone. Not Tasnim Maasi. Not any of your relatives, no one. Please, it’s very important. She’s seven. Murtuza. Seven! ”

  Fatema opens the door to our suite, shushes me, draws me in. Zainab switches on the light and I shield my eyes against the white glare.

  “I’ll explain it all later. But for now, you have to promise me. You have to protect her at all times. Do you understand?”

  “Of course I will. I’m her father. But tell me, what happened? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh my god. She had that sleepover with Nafeesa. On your birthday.” I shoot a look at Zainab. “Did anything happen to her?”

  Zainab shakes her head emphatically from across the room.

  “Shari! Talk to me! What’s going on?” Murtuza shouts through the phone.

  “They did it to me, Murti. They did it to me when I was seven.” I sob, and gasp, and my thought
s muddle. Fatema takes the phone from me, and, in a low voice, explains my distress to Murtuza. I rush to the bathroom and throw up into the toilet, just in time. Zainab comes in, turns on the light.

  “No, turn it off!” It goes dark again. The nausea has stopped, thankfully. I rinse my mouth at the sink and Zainab hands me a towel. She guides me back to bed and holds me close. I rest my head on her shoulder and smell the sharp tang of her sweat. She rocks me like one of her babies, smoothing my hair.

  “It’s over now, it happened a long time ago. It’s over,” Zainab coos.

  “It’s not. It’s not over. My life, my sex life has been ruined by this!” I wail. She tells me to breathe. Holds me tighter. I stop crying, and slowly detach from her. I notice that Fatema is sitting beside me, her hand on my back.

  “How are you?” She passes my phone to me. “I told him we’d look after you, but you should call him back. He’s worried.”

  I nod and she dials for me. I move to the opposite side of the room, sit on a wingback chair. My head is still sore, but not like before.

  “Shari? Are you all right? Should I come there?” Murtuza asks.

  “No, it’s better you stay there. I’m kind of a mess and don’t want Zee to see me like this. Also, we have things to do tomorrow.”

  “You sure you still want to? Maybe you need some time to sort all this out.”

  “I think so. I don’t know. I’ll probably feel better in the morning.”

  “Okay, I’m here, Shari.”

  “Yes, I know. Murti. Remember what I said about Zee, okay?” He assures me he will, and then we say good night.

  “How’s your headache?” Fatema asks.

  “Better. Sorry to wake you up like this.” I cover my face to hide my embarrassment. I fear I am being overly dramatic.

  “I wasn’t sleeping, anyway.” Fatema rubs her lower back.

  “Me, neither,” Zainab says. “You know, it’s odd. Maybe I’m imagining it … but … I think I remember pieces now. At least those colouring books, the smell of the crayons … my mother smiling at me and telling me how … proud she was of me to be so brave and good. She … she told me I was the best one out of the three of us, that I did the best, made the least fuss. Like it was a contest. I remember wearing a pad that was very big and my mother told me I’d hardly bled because I’d been good … I remember the ice cream after.”

  Her eyes are wide, wondering, the memories a revelation.

  “Because you’d been good.” Fatema get up, shakes her head. “That bitch.”

  I wait for her to come back, to sit beside us again.

  “Why can’t I remember?”

  “Some of the women in my activist group don’t remember, either, but have been told by a relative that it happened. It’s how the trauma works, apparently. It’s mysterious. Some of us remember each and every graphic detail. Others have pieces, like Zainab. Sometimes I think it is better not to remember. Every time I think about it, it’s here,” she says, touching her forehead, “right here.”

  I nod, although I can’t agree. At least she’s got something to anchor her, even if it is something awful. Me? I am floating in an ocean of uncertainty.

  “Shari, I am really sorry it came out this way. I wanted to tell you months ago, but when it seemed you didn’t remember I wasn’t sure …”

  “No. I’m glad you told me. It’s better to know.” I think that’s true.

  Exhausted, the three of us have run out of words. We turn off the lights but I stay awake for what feels like an eternity, listening to my cousins’ light snores.

  The sun rises, like any other day. Fatema is up first and orders room service, veg omelettes still steaming in their covered trays, chai, and the whitest bread. We are cautious with one another, overly polite, as we serve one another breakfast. I can only manage a few bites before pushing away my plate. Finally, Zainab breaks the silence.

  “I really didn’t know it was a bad thing.” She stares into her tea. “I assumed it was harmless. Now, I don’t know. I …”

  Neither Fatema nor I speak.

  “Now I … I don’t know what to believe anymore. I guess I have to start thinking for myself.” Zainab is wrestling with her faith, something neither easy nor familiar; a devout woman isn’t supposed to question the rules. And even though she hasn’t framed it as such, I can tell that she is laying the groundwork for an apology to Fatema.

  “You know, you two are the only family I’ve ever spoken to about this,” Fatema breaks in. “I’ve posted things on Facebook, I’ve been part of the activist group, but never have I talked to family. Why did we never talk before? We went through this nightmare together.”

  “Well, I completely blanked it out. So I couldn’t talk about it.” I smile wanly. I am exhausted, on the edge of laughing inappropriately. I take a deep breath to contain my hysteria; I need to stay in this conversation.

  “Me, too, but from what I am remembering, I think we were told never to talk about it, correct?” Zainab looks to Fatema.

  “Yes, your mother warned both of us —” she gestures to Zainab and me “— to never talk to our parents about it, that it would cause trouble.”

  “Mom insisted it hadn’t happened. She explicitly asked Tasnim Maasi and Nani to follow her wishes. Hah.” Half a laugh escapes. I am being too glib. I wrap my arms around my body, try to still myself.

  “My mother often thinks she knows best.” Zainab shakes her head. Fatema nods, takes a big bite of her omelette, her appetite normal. She’s the only one amongst us who seems better for last night’s disclosure.

  “Probably no one told your mother and so you returned home after things were all healed up anyway. But I did tell my mother,” Fatema says.

  Was I all healed up by the time I left? I can’t remember any discomfort down there while on the plane, or when I met my parents at the airport. Or ever. As though in response, a pinprick of pain shoots through my vulva like a firework, exploding then disappearing. I hold my breath, but it doesn’t return.

  “My mother went over to your flat, with me in tow,” she says, facing Zainab now. “She screamed bloody murder. She told your mother she would never speak to her or Daadi again. But of course she did. She had to. In those days we were living with Daadi. But it was never the same after that. We shifted flats a year later. Everything was so tense at home.”

  “So that’s what happened,” Zainab says, with a gasp. “I always wondered why there was a chill between our mothers.”

  “I’m surprised your mother didn’t call mine,” I say to Fatema. Our mothers were close, more sisterly than Maasi and Mom. When Fatema’s parents died, Mom grieved a long time.

  “I think she wanted to, but there was pressure to not make trouble, and then I guess time passed. All the unwritten rules daughters-in-law have to follow in order to get along.” Fatema shakes her head.

  “True, these joint families can be bloody difficult,” Zainab agrees. I look at her with surprise; she’s only ever spoken well of her in-laws.

  There is a knock at the door, and a man in a faded uniform comes to retrieve our breakfast dishes. We pause our talk as he fills his tray. With a twinge of shame, I remember that half the floor must have overheard my outburst last night. I close the door behind him.

  “One of my cousins married a non-Bohra. She took the mithaq, but still her mother-in-law insisted she get khatna before the nikah. Do you think it’s easier as an adult?” Zainab asks, pursing her lips.

  “Well, at least she would have been old enough to consent to it, and maybe to insist that it be done in a clinic. But still, why cut healthy tissue?” Fatema straightens her sheets and bedcover.

  “I’ve always wondered why I feel kind of broken down there,” I whisper. It’s a question that had no proper context or answer before.

  “Yes. It’s likely the reason.” Fatema continues to make her bed, tucking everything in neatly, even though we will be checking out later and a maid will strip off the sheets then. She punches the pillow
s to fluff them. “Fuck. Every time I try to be sexual, I remember why I’m broken down there. My nerve endings wake up and scream the reason.”

  And then I think, And mine just won’t quite wake up enough. It’s like they are perpetually half-awake. Half-asleep.

  “I had no idea that could happen. I have been so lucky. I’m very sorry.” Zainab slumps in her chair, stares at her feet.

  “It’s a good thing, Zainab. I’m always glad when I hear khatna survivors say it didn’t harm their sex lives. I don’t want anyone to go through this.”

  “Khatna survivors,” I echo. “That’s what this is called.” The air is still for a moment, the silence difficult to bear. Fatema zips her bag, then comes to sit on the bed next to me.

  “I went to a specialist the last time I was in New York City, that time I came to visit? I couldn’t talk to you about it then. The doctor looked at my clitoris and told me that while the head is intact, there is nerve damage. She told me there is no good treatment right now, that I should see a sex therapist who can help me breathe through the pain when I have sex. Breathe through the pain! All I want to do is curse the religion when I feel that pain. Fucking Dawoodi Bohras! Fucking child-abusing holy leaders!” Fatema forms a steeple with her fingers and hides her face.

  “Fatema …” Zainab begins, and I shoot her a stern look of warning. This is not the time to encourage moderation in our language. I put my hand on Fatema’s back, wait for her to breathe again.

  “I’m glad you are telling us. It’s good for us to talk about this.” My words taste like artificial sweetener. I take my hand off Fatema’s back.

  “We will do more talking. We will do it together,” Zainab says with a hale and hearty tone, rallying us. “All night long I have been thinking about this. Maybe we should talk honestly to Mummy about this.”

  Fatema and I exchange glances. I can’t imagine how that conversation will go. With my favourite aunt, with whom I used to be able to share secrets. Will she defend herself, tell us that we are overreacting?