Desh (6 page)

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 you 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.

‘I hurt but I can't see the pain. No-one can. When I cut the pain is released and there it is. I have matched the inside to the outside. So I can physically see it. Otherwise I am just going quietly mad inside my head and all this pain's not real. I don't have the strength to fight Dad anymore. I don't have anything to fight him with and all Mum would want is for me to get along with my husband and not bring shame on the family. My grandmother was married when she was eight. She didn't have the luxury of choice. Why do I feel I'm entitled to it? If I put aside my preferences, I make Mum happy and the family goes on. Could I make this marriage work? Are his hands so very different to the others? Jay or Ojo or Dwayne? I let them touch me
.'

She fell asleep on the floor with her face resting on the open page and came to, some while later when her phone pinged and vibrated on the paper. The screen lit up with a text. Neil wanted to call – he needed to speak to her. What could be so important he had to call? Her mind raced. It might be that her job had gone. She wouldn't be surprised if head office had decided enough was enough. It had been three months, not three weeks after all.

Up on the roof was the only place she could go to take the call. At least there, she'd be guaranteed some privacy. As far as she knew, she was the only one who ever went up there. So she kept it to herself and didn't go too often. If the others knew, she'd lose another patch of peace. Near the appointed time, she sat cross legged with the phone in her lap and waited.

“Aila? You there, Princess? How you bearing up?” The voice came through a metal tunnel.

“Neil, I can't believe you're ringing. It's so good to hear from you.”

“Are you alone? Can you be overheard?”

“I can't say much, but there's no one around. Why? What's the matter?”

“I've been speaking to Shafia. She showed me your text. She's worried sick. You need to know the Forced Marriage Act was passed here in November. Just listen. If you're happy with what's happened that's fine. Ignore me. But if you're in trouble there's a way out. Contact the Forced Marriage Unit in London when you get back; they'll help you. It's completely confidential; your father need never know.

“Come on hun, hold it together. Hang in there. You don't even have to ask about your job. I want you back in one piece. You don't have to tell anyone anything you don't want to. No one's forcing you, but I'm here for you.” The phone went black and he'd gone.

Aila stayed on the roof and looked out over the lake. It was five in the afternoon in London. Another day and she might have been in the lake, face down. The air felt soft with the scent of henna, a peculiar waft of roses and bitter chocolate and she thought of her mother. Every birthday, her father gave Nessa Roses perfume and the smell of it restored her. There might be a way to endure this. Hope seeped back into her veins and that night she slept without a knife under her pillow.

The following evening, after the children had been battened into their
beds, and the mosquito nets drawn over them, she sat on the sofa beside her mother and the conversation turned to the newlyweds. Mazid would have to get back for uni soon and her father wanted to get everything organised. “Once the visa application goes through,” he said, “we'll send a ticket for Sobia. It shouldn't take too long.”

“Will you be sending Gourab's application at the same time?” said Aila.

Sadhan smiled at Mazid as he answered “I would think so.”

“And then he'll start his new life in my bed.”

Mazid glared at his sister, outraged that she would to speak like that, but Aila turned to him “Tell me bro, when did you first find out about my husband? I'm just trying to figure it out because as I remember it, you two seemed to know each other quite well, when you brought him into my room, you know, five minutes before I was married. How did that happen?”

“This isn't the time, Affa.”

Aila uncrossed her legs and leant forward. “No? Strikes me as the perfect time. There's no one else around, and here we are. One big happy family. So come on, when did you first meet him?”

Sadhan tried to answer.” We're not talking about you at this point. Your brother has to leave soon.”

Aila kept her eyes on Mazid. ”Well? When was it?”

“Three years ago.”

“What?”

“I met him last time we were here. There was a meal arranged in Sylhet to appraise him in person, and that was the first time. Dad had done the research back then. His family were the right caste and Maryam's father knew him.”

She turned to her mother. “And you knew about this?”

”Shuna, I knew they met, but it wasn't a favourable outcome. He turned his back on your father during the meal, so I thought that was the end of that. It wasn't until this April, on your birthday, that your father decided to progress the proposal.”

“All I ever asked was to marry someone from London. I would have been happy without a grand wedding, without a proper sari even, if you'd found me someone I could at least get on with. I thought you cared about me. How could any of you think this was right?”

Nessa spoke through tears.” I don't think you realise how bad things are. We have no money; your father was just doing the best he could.”

“Well that's not strictly true, is it? There's the fifteen grand I borrowed. But here's the thing. If you leave me here, I'll lose my job, the loan will go into default and you lot will lose my salary. And I really wouldn't hold out much hope of a janitor earning enough to support us all. So don't bite the hand that feeds you – or give it away. Just get me on a plane home now.”

Sadhan stood over her. “You're so high and fucking mighty. Think you're too good for this family. So what's all this?”
He grabbed her arm and pushed the sleeve back. “Who wants a woman with sliced up arms? You said you wouldn't do this again. Three years ago you lay in that hospital bed, looked me in the eyes and promised.”

Aila pulled her arm away. “Get me home and it won't.”

Three days later she had a ticket back to London.

‘Finally Dhaka Airport. Never thought I'd see you again, and after today I never want to. The Janitor thinks I'm being careful with his paperwork because I'm falling in love with him. But he'll never see me again.
I did it. I pulled it off. I have so much to get down on the plane. Names dates places. It's all evidence for the Forced Marriage people. If I can get out of the marriage without bringing shame on the family I've got to give it my best shot.

Do not befriend outsiders I get told, but they're the ones who've saved me. I can't wait to see Neil and Shaf. I can't wait to taste real food again. Nandos. Peri peri chicken wings, chips, and proper Coke.
It's been the longest three weeks of my life.'

Hibernation

God knows how they made it home. The minicab took the longest, most torturous route from the airport through frenzied sleet. Sadhan snarled while the driver, one of his contacts, peered myopically through frantic wipers and Aila held her mother's hand in the back seat. Finally the car pulled up outside the house and never had the crooked path and ramshackle porch looked so good.

They shuffled their bags through freezing slush and, once inside, no-one spoke. Instead, they moved like zombies through the cold airless rooms. Sadhan flicked through the mail and Aila went straight to her room and shut the door.

The next time her eyes opened, white numbers flashed on the clock radio beside the bed. She woke to a chill morning and listened to the news to get her bearings. There'd been a slump in sales over Christmas and retailers were suffering – poor retailers – and Gordon Brown wanted to see broadband in every household in Britain. Dad would be thrilled

She lay back in the hollow of the sheets and felt the heaviness descend again as she slid into a state of dozing and dreaming, broken only by raging thirst, until sometime later she woke in the afternoon, groggy and depleted, to the sound of banging and her father stormed in.

He'd had enough. When was she going to get up? Mazid had gone back to university and her mother needed help.” You're the saviour of the family. Get off your fat arse and do something.”

The door closed and the sting lingered. Days, not hours, had passed in a dormant state and though she knew she had to stir herself into action, the simple act of getting up seemed insurmountable. The suitcase lay open on the floor with the clothes spilled out, lifeless and deflated. She stared until her eyes began to ache and then, for the first time in days, she tuned into the sounds downstairs. When she heard her mother's voice in the hall and her father's heavy steps, she knew he'd left for the restaurant, so she pushed the sheets back and sat up.

Downstairs, Nessa was curled on the sofa not watching the television. Aila noticed the black pouches under her eyes had deepened. But Nessa dismissed it, saying her back was bad and she just needed to rest. The best thing would be for Aila to sort herself out and get back to work, then her father would calm down.

So Aila decided she'd drive to work. If that's what her mother wanted and she was sure she'd be okay on her own, then so be it. Being Friday night, she knew Neil would be on shift and the thought of seeing him lifted her spirits; that and the prospect of driving again.

It felt so good to sit in the Peugeot and the roads were like old friends as she weaved her way to Norbury and timed it to arrive as the shift ended. The last of the members were leaving the club as she slipped inside the main doors. “Not going to say hello then, stranger?”

Neil looked up from the reception desk. “Oh my God. Aila? What the hell!” He opened his arms wide.
“
Come here to me.”

“I have missed you so much.”

“It's okay, you're okay now. Let me lock up and we can talk.” He clicked the main lights off, said, “I won't be long,” and disappeared upstairs.

While Aila waited behind the reception desk, she realised she should have taken time to get dressed. She blew into cupped hands to check her breath, then wiped her hands down the grimy folds of the faded black burkha as Neil came back.

He joined her behind the desk. “What the hell has happened to you? “ She tried to answer and stumbled at first, but Neil listened and asked questions that encouraged her to go on. The headscarf fell back and exposed the patch of white scalp, but she didn't try to hide it, and when she finished, he stroked her hair.

“So this uncle Chacha,” he said, “who's not long for this world, he wants to see his family right and his granddaughter Sobia, married. So it's decided she'll marry your brother and if the whole family is going to Bangladesh for a wedding they might as well make it two. Your parents hear about some guy for you, whose family are acceptable which makes it an arranged marriage. Yes? Like Shafia's, except if Shaf had said she didn't like the guy that would have been the end of it, whereas you couldn't.”