Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel (26 page)

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Authors: Samina Ali

BOOK: Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel
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He groaned, and the bed creaked as he came to me and rested his head on my navel. His cheeks felt wet. “I’m so stupid,” he said. “I’m so bloody stupid. Can you forgive me?”
“Why have you kept … everything?”
“I’ll throw it out, I swear to you, baby, I’ll throw it all out first thing in the morning. We’ve come so far together, let us not … it is in the past, it is in the past.” He buried his face in my belly, arms cinching me.
In the morning, he rose earlier than usual and, through the dense mosquito netting, I watched him dig out the packet of letters and articles. He threw it into the canvas bag along with the engineering books he carried to and from tutoring. Before he left, he came and sat next to me, in the slit that served as the netting’s door. One of his eyes was red and watering, as his father’s got at the end of the day. He folded his hands in his lap and stared down at them.
“Did you want to return, now that you’ve read … did you want to go back? Maybe he is a better fit … maybe you think he is a better man …” his voice buckled.
“I told you I loved you,” I said, though, in truth, the words did not come out as easily as they had the other night. But if my husband had behaved badly, hadn’t I behaved worse, and he had been able to forgive me.
When the roar of his motorcycle was fading down the street, Nafiza walked into the room with Zeba. Even before I rose from bed and parted the netting, I knew Zeba was crying from how still she held her body. The window shutters were closed, the room dim, but I could make out the tears running down her broad cheekbones, getting caught in the deep creases before zigzagging past. The black
duppatta
had fallen from her head to expose thin hair, the gray at the parting dyed maroon with henna.
Without covering herself, she said, “Beti?” Daughter, but it was a question, all of her questions in the one word. Then she glanced at the bed behind me, and, in her slanted eyes, I could see her envisioning the spotted cloth Sameer had given her, the
walima
dinner, her asking Nafiza to dress me in green.
Not a show, she had said, thank Allah this was not just a show.
 
 
I ORDERED MY nanny to leave the house.
“You have forgotten yourself,” I said, my voice surprisingly calm. “Whether you have breast-fed me or not, you will always be my servant, nothing more.”
She flinched at the word, but her face did not close to me. In the next room, Zeba had shut herself inside the
ashur-khana
to pray. I hoped to get Nafiza out of the house before Zeba emerged. No more chance of the two talking again.
My nanny tried to grasp my hand, but I pulled away and opened my
almari.
How much did servants get compensated for being kicked out?
Behind me, I could hear her smacking the aching leg as she said, “He no show he-self to you, Layla-bebe. He demon, he no man. He take on pretty-pretty face so you no see he. This
jadu
worse than Raga-be do, make you stay here, with him, when this no good home for you.”
“What is a good home for me, Nafiza-una, the one Dad provided?”
She spoke on, as though not having heard what I’d said. “Me you mama, no care what you say, me no servant to you. Me give you me milk, me bathe you, me carry you with me two hands. You me child. I no want to see you harm. What me say when me know about you
gora-wallah?
Me say me no care. This me child. No matter what she do.”
I tried to hand her a full month’s salary, though I knew she would simply return to Amme’s, and, after my mother went back to the U.S., to Taqi Mamu’s.
She put up a hand, refusing it.
I said, “Of course you accepted me even after what I’d done. What choice do you have, what power over me?”
“You me child, like Roshan …”
“Take the money, Nafiza, and go.”
Never before had I seen her eyes fill with tears. Very quickly, she blinked them back, refusing to cry before me. “Listen, child,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Me know you no see right. This
jadu
he done to you with he pretty face and pretty words. When you see right, you come to me. You no feel shame for what you do today. I forgive you.” She tightened the sari-
pallow
around her shoulders and tucked the edge into the sari blouse. It was the same blue sari she’d worn the day she’d returned from her trip away, over a week before. Her hair was oily again, strands rising here and there at the crown and from the bun. She had the bitter scent of sickness, and though I had determined to force her to the doctor’s, I didn’t say anything.
As she bundled her clothes and
paan-dan
together, tying it all inside an old torn sari, in the fashion the
tho-bun
had carried our laundry, I
heard her humming that song from long ago, about a lost girl who would one day find her way home.
 
 
THE NEXT MORNING, Amme arrived at the house.
I had been standing with Zeba in the kitchen, against the black counter, as she washed our breakfast plates, a task usually given to Nafiza. She wouldn’t let me help, and from behind, I watched the steady rise and fall of her shoulders, the stretching and creasing of the black
duppatta
as she sighed, then sighed again. When she was done, she began heating milk for chai. She didn’t look at me, pretending I wasn’t in the kitchen disobeying her son.
At last, I said, “I’ve been trying to convince Sameer to stay here a few extra months, as you and I talked about.”
She stared at me in disbelief, not doubting my efforts, it seemed, but my sway. Limits she hadn’t counted on.
Then she said, “Your mother is here,” and only then did I hear the familiar groan of the Fiat’s engine. Zeba checked the clock, saying, “Exactly on time. This is the hour your
nana
used to arrive each month at my parents’ house, asking for his rent.”
Zeba seated my mother on a chair she shifted just inside the living area, opposite her
takat.
My mother not fully a guest, yet not fully a member of this household.
Amme didn’t sit right away. She stood framed by the doorway, enveloped in her shiny chador, her almond-shaped eyes studying the room: its simple furniture, the low fridge, the Pakistani rug on which Zeba and I sat, three cups of steaming chai on the silver tray beside us. My mother kept her eyes averted from my face, and I was reminded of what it had been like to be the ill-fated daughter. I wanted so badly for her to see me, if only to recognize what she had accomplished by pushing me into this marriage: at last, she had brought me to life.
Amme said, “Much has changed since I was here last, for your son’s
sanchak
ceremony. There was much laughter and singing that night … much hope.”
Zeba offered Amme a cup of tea, saying, “There is always hope when we place our faith in Allah.”
Amme declined by explaining that she’d just eaten
paan.
But I knew what she really meant. For her, this was not a social call.
She unwrapped the layers of the chador, and a yellow sari emerged with a black border and crimson threads throughout. Gold, high-heeled sandals. It was as though she’d dressed for that very wedding ceremony. But, in truth, it was the way Amme always dressed, as though for some occasion, and despite the dark shadows under her eyes, she had a noble air, while, before her, Zeba appeared simple and old, the creases on her face speaking of hardships very different from my mother’s. The renters, the landowners, their history, it was all revealed.
Amme draped the chador over the chair before she finally sat down. She stared at her palms, their lifelines showing the decisions she’d made. She was ready to announce the reason for this visit.
Zeba must have recognized the gesture, too, for she quickly said, “Your husband’s sister has recently married, I have heard. For the second time.
Mubarak
. Allah willing, this marriage will last. Divorce is always more difficult for women. No matter the circumstance, they are the ones who are blamed. Men go on with their lives, marrying again, a second time, a third time, a fourth time, no one tallies up how many women they’ve been with. Women carry the burden. Once a woman’s name is tied to a man’s, she is seen as tainted, no matter the circumstance.” She stopped to take a slow sip of her tea before adding, “Your sister-in-law has a good kismet. Most divorced women must spend the rest of their lives alone.”
Amme was twirling an earring, gold molded into a rose, impatient tor Zeba to finish. When she did, Amme finally said, “My husband and I are leaving in two days for the U.S. He would like …” she hesitated and cleared her throat, “he would like to see his daughter before we go.” A lie, of course. She was just using Dad, a man, to legitimize this transaction between women. Though Zeba did not see it, my mother was up to something.
“Your husband?” Zeba cried, and the cup clattered onto its saucer. “You and I have watched each other grow up, and now we are watching each other grow old.
Meri sumdum,
” she said, my fellow mother-in-law, “I know your situation. I know the sacrifices you have made for your daughter. There is no need to conceal the truth from me.”
She was referring to my mother’s divorce, and I could only think that Sameer had told Zeba, thus betraying me again. Would I be able to forgive this?
Amme didn’t flinch, her face fixed as I’d seen before, so accustomed she was to these sudden announcements, this loss of faith. If she thought it was I, her daughter, who had exposed her, she didn’t let on, her eyes still not turning to me.
Zeba reached across and patted Amme’s hand. My mother pulled it back and hid both under her sari’s pleats.
“You mustn’t be ashamed,” Zeba said. “You have shown great courage and resolve. A mother must do all she can to protect her child. If you hadn’t stayed on in his home, kept his protection, where would you be now? Where would Layla be? In this world, a woman’s only possession is her reputation, and you have kept ahold of yours.” She passed a hand over my head, a gesture I could not remember Amme ever making. “Your daughter is now my daughter. She has a home here. If she has sent Nafiza away, then you must see it as her saying that she, too, would like to make this her home … no matter the present circumstance. It has only been a month. Allah will reward you for the sacrifices you’ve made for your daughter. He will provide.” She raised her hands up to her chest, the
duppatta
stretched between them, a beggar asking for the wealth of his compassion.
Amme finally turned and looked at me, taking in the
duppatta
around my head, my wrists and neck as clean of jewelry as Zeba’s. “It is true, what you are saying, the child does seem to have found a place here,” she said. “But I must still ask to take her for the day, her father is waiting. I assure you, I will bring her back.”
Zeba grew uncomfortable and said, “I was surprised when you sent Nafiza to my home. I knew she would make trouble. Don’t you
remember the trouble she caused when we were children? Your father had taken her into his home and raised her with such care, and what did she do? She seduced your own brother, Taqi! Chasing him around in the woods, swimming with him in the river. You and I are of the same age, don’t you remember the adults whispering about it? It’s how we first encountered …” she glanced in my direction, “ … these intimacies that occur between a man and woman. What a shock we’d felt after they had told us such things did not happen in Islam. Then, there they were, happening under the very roof of your house. Your father was smart to force her to marry his driver, Moosa. No telling how far she would have gone, what she might have done, to become a legitimate daughter!”
So there it was, the reason my nanny had needed Raga-be’s help, and, no doubt, one of the reasons she continued to accept me as her own. For along with her milk, my nanny seemed to have passed on to me her very legacy.
“I see you still enjoy speaking about the past,” Amme said. “I assure you, Nafiza has learned from her mistakes. She is committed to Layla’s well-being and wants only for the child to have a proper home.” With that, she stood and wrapped the chador about her again. With her chin, she gestured for me to go into my room and change. When I rose, Zeba grabbed my hand, showing a desperation I had not seen in her before. This, the true mother asking for her daughter back.
She said, “Your family and mine have known each other for seven generations. There was no need for you to ask around about Sameer’s character, his behavior, his past life, like others do before they marry their children. Nor did I make inquiries about Layla, her life in the U.S. We entered this marriage in good faith. Marium,” she said, using my mother’s name, which no one used anymore. Like me, she was a
bevi,
wife,
bhabhi.
sister-in-law, then also
apa
, sister,
amme
, and even
sauken,
the other woman. Defined, as most women were here, by how she was related to others. Indeed, a woman could not be on her own, her dependency constructed even in language.
“Marium, no matter what you think of my son, he has provided
Layla with a home. If you take her from here, she will not even have that … remember, there was the
walima
dinner announcing a successful union. No man will marry her now, not unless he takes her for a second or third wife. Did you sacrifice your life to make her into a woman no better than the one who stole your husband? I’m asking you, let the two have a chance. They will come together,
inshal’lah.”

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