Seven

by Farzana Doctor

  “You know, I remember Rubina Master from my school days. She was one year ahead of me. And she attends the Bandra masjid. She seems like a nice person. I would imagine she thinks she is doing a service?”

  “I guess.” We watch as the two security guards try to shoo the noisy crowd away as though we are a few flies, instead of a swarm.

  “Fatema thinks this will only embarrass her so that she will stop. She won’t lose her licence. I hope that’s true.” She fiddles with her rida’s hood tie.

  Aleesha climbs the hospital’s steps, and speaks into her megaphone. She’s pulled a rida over her jeans and T-shirt.

  “We are here today to expose Dr. Rubina Master, who performs khatna. What is khatna? It is a form of female genital cutting done by our Dawoodi Bohra community to girls at the tender age of seven. Khatna is gender violence and causes emotional, physical, sexual trauma. Khatna must end! Stop Rubina Master!” She exhorts the crowd to join her in a half-dozen rounds of “Khatna must end! Stop Rubina Master!”

  “C’mon. Let’s go!” Zainab yells into my ear.

  “What? Where?” I yell back.

  “Follow my lead.” She pulls my arm, and I accompany her around the side of the building, and in the side doors. She pauses to consult the directory; gynecology is on the fourth floor.

  “What are we doing?” I ask, but she shushes me and pulls me into the elevator. Inside, there are two other ridawalas, and I realize that we look like them; patients on our way to appointments. On the fourth floor, Zainab pauses, as though considering our next move, then takes me by the elbow down a long hallway.

  “Zainab! What are you doing?” I ask, but she shakes her head.

  “Shhh.”

  “I’m leaving.” I turn to go.

  “No, please, I need you! Just pretend you’re here for an appointment,” she whispers, glancing around fearfully. Again, no one looks at us askance, the ridas our camouflage. She shoots me a look of desperation. “Please, just come with me.”

  She takes my hand, and worried for her, I follow, her lady-in-waiting in this unfamiliar game of make-believe.

  Ahead is a desk where a receptionist in an emerald rida types at a computer. Sitting beside her is our great-great-grandfather, who thumbs a rolodex. He looks up, nods in acknowledgment. I blink, and then he is gone, the index cards abandoned.

  “Name, please?” the receptionist asks. Zainab offers her first and her maiden name and says she has an appointment with Dr. Master. The receptionist squints at her computer display, searching for the missing information, and Zainab says, “Sorry, must go to the bathroom.” She grabs my hand and we flee down the hall, our ridas like wings flapping around us. I have no idea what we are doing, but I know I can’t stop Zainab. And I can’t leave her alone to do whatever unhinged thing she’s about to do. Can I?

  “You gave her your name?” I hiss-whisper.

  “I know, it was stupid. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think of that when I was planning this.”

  “Planning what?”

  She places her finger in front of her mouth to silence me and then gestures with her eyebrows to the door in front to us. Its nameplate reads RUBINA MASTER.

  “Zainab! No!”

  Zainab turns the knob and bursts in. A woman in a white coat, who is standing by a window, turns to look at us.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Don’t you remember me? We went to St. Mary’s together, Rubina. I’m Zainab. I was passing by with my cousin and I thought I’d come up and warn you about the protest downstairs.”

  “I can see it with my own two eyes.” Rubina gestures to the window. “These people are such liars.”

  “Yes, it is so bad the way that women these days are taking up this cause. They are bringing shame to our community.” My eyes bug out at Zainab. What is she saying?

  “I know, it’s just a small thing, and they are making it into a mountain.”

  “And why are they targeting you? I mean you do khatna under sterile conditions, not like the traditional way, no?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I wish everyone would come to doctors for it. It becomes a safe, medical procedure. Like with boys.”

  “Yes, that was what I was telling my cousin here. She’s in town until next week with her seven-year-old daughter. Can you squeeze in an appointment for them?”

  “Yes, just ask my receptionist out there.” She scans the crowd outside. “The procedure is very quick. We can do it before you go.”

  My brain unscrambles and I ask, “Do you use an anaesthetic cream?” For some reason, I want to confirm Maasi’s account of the procedure.

  “You can get one if you want, but it’s not required,” she says distractedly. Perhaps Maasi’s report was based on hearsay.

  “Very modern, no? When we were kids, it was done in some aunty’s flat.” Zainab laughs, shakes her head.

  Despite her pretend positivity, her words bring back that apartment, the waiting, the fear. I inhale, shake it away.

  “We Bohras are very modern, not like they would have people believe.” The doctor bites her lip, and continues to look down at the crowd.

  “What are you going to do about them?” Zainab asks.

  “Nothing. The security will clear them or they will tire themselves out.” She sneers out the window. Why is she not afraid of the yelling below?

  “It won’t bring trouble to you?” Zainab asks.

  “They have no proof. I will deny that we do it.”

  “You’ll deny you do khatna?” Zainab repeats.

  “Yes. We simply call it a checkup in our records. There is no record whatsoever.”

  “No record at all of the khatna?” Zainab confirms.

  The doctor shakes her head.

  “Smart,” Zainab says, tapping her forehead.

  The receptionist arrives, frowns at our presence, and says, “Doctor, there is a problem downstairs.”

  “Yes, I know, and these ladies were kind enough to come and tell me. Will you book this lady’s daughter in for a checkup as soon as possible? She leaves next week.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Nice to see you again, Rubina. Keep up the good work and don’t be bothered by those paagal women out there.”

  We follow the receptionist out, and once again, Abdoolally is at the desk. His moustache and beard curtsy as his face lifts into a wide grin. I press Zainab’s arm, but by the time she turns, the apparition is gone.

  “I thought you said you had an appointment?” the receptionist says.

  “No, no. I said I needed to make an appointment. How’s next Thursday?” When asked my daughter’s name, Zainab offers a fake one, and then we head to the elevator, which, thankfully, is empty.

  “Oh, Allah, I hope it turned out nice and clear.” She pulls her cellphone from a plastic wallet held by a chain around her neck. “I just have to hit stop and save. There. I practised at home before.”

  “Omigod, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Fatema said not to involve you, that all this was too much stress. But then how could I go alone? I was too scared. I was going to go with Nafeesa, but then you asked her to watch Zee.”

  “You should have explained on the way up!”

  “I was all nerves!”

  I shake my head at my cousin, but all the same, am elated by our undercover operation. I say a silent prayer for a clear recording.

  The elevator doors open and a security guard ushers us out the same doors we came in.

  “Ladies, be careful, there are goondas outside.” We head out and Zainab and I break into a giggling fit.

  We return to the shade of the tree. Zainab holds the phone up to her ear, listening. “It’s clear! The recording is clear!”

  There are four security guards at the front door now, and the protest wraps up, Aleesha signalling that it is time to go.

  “Thank you all for having the courage to come today and speak your minds. This is only the beginning. I urge you to post photos on social medi
a, with the hashtag ‘khatnakhatma’!”

  “Khatna khatma?” I ask Zainab.

  “Khatma means ended, finished. Khatna is finished.”

  “Khatna khatma!” Aleesha yells and caught up in the moment, I clap along with the group’s cheers. I think about how I once tut-tutted through the articles about FGM that came my way, assuming the stories were exceptional, not the norm. Not in our community, not in our family. Not me. I ignored what I wasn’t able to see, the delusions keeping me safe but also stuck.

  I whisper an apology to all the women whose stories I dismissed as not connected to me. I whisper an apology to all the seven-year-old girls who will not be protected from harm. I whisper an apology to myself for not knowing, for not remembering, for not believing.

  I say a quick prayer for the souls of Zehra and Rumana. I thank Allah for Banu, who, all these generations later, has continued their legacy.

  FIFTY-NINE

  We parade to the coffee shop to regroup. Checking the time, I see that less than twenty-five minutes have passed since the protest started, yet it feels as though it lasted the whole day. I message Nafeesa and notice that Murtuza texted ten minutes earlier.

  are you ok?

  “I looked for you under the tree a couple of times, but didn’t see you until the end,” Murtuza says, his tone miffed, but I know he was worried.

  “Yeah, where were you two?” Mom asks.

  “Zainab, I think you’d better fill them in.” I look to her.

  Zainab describes our escapade while Mom and Murtuza listen, mouths agape. “I’m still shaking all over!”

  “No way!” Murtuza wraps his arm around me. “You were a spy today!”

  “So, how’d it go?” Fatema joins us, cellphone to her ear. Zainab begins her report, but Fatema interrupts her, “Sorry, ek minute. Varun? Yeah, we are finished. Pull up beside the Café Coffee Day.” She ends the call and looks at Zainab expectantly.

  “It’s all here,” she says, passing the phone to Fatema.

  “Arre waah!” she says, and types into Zainab’s phone. “I’m sending the file to my email. Great job, Zainab!”

  “It wasn’t just me. We were a duo.” She points at me.

  “I wish I could have joined you two.”

  “Next time wear a rida, and you can go undercover with us,” I joke, pulling mine off, revealing knee-length jean shorts and a T-shirt.

  “Not on your life!” Fatema laughs.

  Varun loads the placards into the car, and the group disperses. Nafeesa and Zee return. I wipe the sweat on her brow with my rida.

  “Did you have a good time?” I ask her. She describes, in detail, the park they visited: swings, see-saws, slides. She isn’t curious about the protest, as I expect her to be, but then sometimes her questions about serious things don’t arise until days or even months later, after she’s had time to think. For now, I’m satisfied that it’s a playground on her mind.

  Fatema pulls Zainab and me aside to introduce us to the reporter, Adnand. He’s in his thirties, wears skinny jeans, and trails too much cologne.

  “So this is the daring duo!” His smile is bright white, his handshake eager. He tells us that he’d like to post Zainab’s recording’s transcript and the audio clip on his paper’s website.

  “I need to listen to it before you take it,” I reply, and he nods. “I barely remember what we said and I don’t want to be identified in the recording.”

  “Yes, me, too.” Zainab and I find a table on our own. We use Nafeesa’s headphones, and we lean close, each holding a bud to an ear. Zainab mouths a silent “oh” as she listens. I gasp at the end, at the part when the doctor admits to keeping false records. The entire exchange takes less than three minutes.

  “It’s just the beginning, where she introduces herself, that you’ll need to cut out,” I tell Adnand.

  “The rest is fine. Actually, it’s great. We caught her!” Zainab adds.

  “Of course, I won’t identify you at all; we’d mute that interaction or just your names. You needn’t worry.” He bows his head slightly as he says this, and his smile is genuine.

  “I appreciate that,” I say.

  “The same went for your email, as you requested. By the way, it should be online by now. I’ll follow up with a report of the protest and your recording. It’s a terrific story!” He bobs his head side to side.

  “Show us,” Zainab says, pointing at Adnand’s tablet. He finds the article and then passes it to her. I read over her shoulder.

  “Wait. You posted the whole email exchange!” My eyes scan what looks to be our entire thread. My name is gone, and so is Maasi’s, except for in the last message. I pass the tablet to Fatema. “Oh my god! You left in Maasi’s name! I thought … I thought you’d only report a summary of the email, to support the allegation that Rubina Master is a cutter! You weren’t supposed to include the actual word-for-word conversation!” My voice is shrill rebuke. Then I realize: why did I think that? We hadn’t actually specified it, did we?

  “Oh,” Fatema says.

  “Let me look,” Mom says, and Murtuza crowds around her.

  “But I didn’t agree to not include the email, I only asked my editors to remove all the names,” Adnand says, taking back his tablet and scanning the page. “Oh, shit, my editor took out your aunt’s name everywhere, but neglected to remove it at one place in the end. I’ll deal with this.” Shaking, he grabs his phone, steps away from the table, and makes a call.

  “Fatema, you didn’t tell me the email itself would be published.” I look to her, but she is a deer caught in headlights. I feel misled, a fool.

  “He’s fixing it now, and it won’t be in the paper until tomorrow,” she sputters.

  “How many people have already seen the online version?” I ask, not wanting to know the answer.

  “Well, our social media person posted it a few minutes before the protest began,” Fatema says, recovering her calm, “less than an hour ago.” She checks the time, walks a few steps away to make a call.

  “Why is everyone angry?” Zee asks, and then I realize, that for the last few minutes, I’ve forgotten to shield my daughter from all this.

  “Oh, it’s not a big deal,” Murtuza says in a light voice. “The reporter made a small mistake, but we caught it and now it will be fixed. Let’s go see what cold drinks they have. I’m thirsty.” He takes Zee by the hand to the counter. Fatema returns to our table.

  “She’s pulling it from Facebook, Twitter, and our website. But it’s gone out over WhatsApp, to all the Bohra groups.” Fatema’s face is flushed, perspiration beading her lip.

  Zainab checks her WhatsApp account. “Oh, no. One person has shared screen shots with me already. That means Mom is going to know, eventually.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I should have read it more carefully. There was just so much going on today, and I only skimmed the article,” Fatema says.

  “It’s not your fault. It’s his. That was incredibly unprofessional,” Mom says, pointing to Adnand, who is still giving his instructions to someone over the phone.

  “No, it is her fault. I didn’t want this! I didn’t want Maasi to know I was involved. She’s always been like this. Rushing ahead and so focused on the big ideas, but forgets it’s the tiny details that end up hurting people. She’s a steamroller!” I don’t know where these words come from, but they feel like they’ve been stored away for a long time.

  “Honey, just calm down. It’s no use blaming Fatema.” Mom holds my wrist and whispers to me, like a mother embarrassed by her child’s outburst at a birthday party.

  “Worst-case scenario, the most orthodox people will know that Tasnim is in favour of khatna and tried to arrange it. She comes out as a saint to them, right?” Fatema attempts.

  “And she finds out that I deceived her.”

  “Shari, she was going to find that out anyway. This story was going to get around, and she was going to figure out that something of your email exchange was shared, even if the full thing was
n’t printed,” Fatema says, her words a reasonable-sounding plea. I stare at her. Of course, she’s right. I hadn’t really thought about it. And I should have. All I’d been focused on was getting the name of the doctor.

  “She is going to feel crushed.” I can’t help it, but tears escape.

  “Why are you so concerned about her? She’s the one who should be concerned about you! About all three of you!” Mom argues, pointing to me, Fatema, and Zainab.

  I feel small, sick to my stomach. I sit down.

  “Listen, Shari. The plan all along was to make you the innocent victim. Remember, you shared it with me and I went public with it?” Fatema attempts. “She’ll never know your intent, your involvement, Shari. I promise you that. I’ll take the fall.”

  “And me, too,” Zainab says, “I’m going to say you sent it to me and I sent it to Fatema. I thought this whole email thing up, remember?”

  Some part of me recalls that this was a logical plan, something I consented to, but now that it’s all there in a newspaper article, it no longer makes sense. I feel violated. And then I think some people might put two and two together, know it was me who sent the email, and believe I truly wanted khatna for Zee.

  “Okay, everyone,” Adnand returns to our table, a nervous smile on his face. “The name has been removed. It’s all corrected. We sincerely apologize for the error.” When he looks around our little circle, he can tell from our faces that the problem is not fixed. I avoid his gaze, wipe away my tears, embarrassed.

  “Listen, we can go to her place now and sort it,” Zainab says, calmly, but her tight jaw reveals that she’s nervous, too. I’ll be leaving this city in a week, but Zainab will be left here to deal with her mother, with the community. I tell myself to pull myself together, to grow up.

  “No. I’ve got to go talk to her. I need to do this on my own. I can’t let you take the blame, Zainab.” I ignore Fatema, and give instructions to Mom to tell Murtuza to go home, and I step out onto the street, signal for a taxi, and direct the driver to Maasi’s flat. Mom stares at me, perhaps too caught up in her own emotions, to mount a credible protest.