Read Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel Online
Authors: Samina Ali
Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel (36 page)
Zenath rested her wrist on her plate, unable to finish eating. I
watched her gaze about the room until she found Zeba. My mother-in-law kept herself far from me at these gatherings, sequestered to some distant wall, surrounded by sadly clucking women. Zenath tried on a smile, not caring this time who among the mourners saw. She spoke louder than she had been, her words not meant solely for me, but to let others know she had fulfilled her mission. “Bhabhi, when we heard Sameer Bhai was here, we could not believe it until we peeked out the front window and saw him with our own eyes. You know, he has never come to these gatherings before. Always during Muhar’ram, he has disappeared. You cannot imagine the pain it has caused Zeba Auntie.” She turned down her lips in sorrow for her aunt. “People say that on the tenth of Muhar’ram, he could be found in the movie theater. Imagine that, Bhabhi, imagine such sin!” She shook her head and whispered,
“Tho-ba, tho-ba,”
as she lightly slapped her own cheeks in repentance.
watched her gaze about the room until she found Zeba. My mother-in-law kept herself far from me at these gatherings, sequestered to some distant wall, surrounded by sadly clucking women. Zenath tried on a smile, not caring this time who among the mourners saw. She spoke louder than she had been, her words not meant solely for me, but to let others know she had fulfilled her mission. “Bhabhi, when we heard Sameer Bhai was here, we could not believe it until we peeked out the front window and saw him with our own eyes. You know, he has never come to these gatherings before. Always during Muhar’ram, he has disappeared. You cannot imagine the pain it has caused Zeba Auntie.” She turned down her lips in sorrow for her aunt. “People say that on the tenth of Muhar’ram, he could be found in the movie theater. Imagine that, Bhabhi, imagine such sin!” She shook her head and whispered,
“Tho-ba, tho-ba,”
as she lightly slapped her own cheeks in repentance.
“Yes, Bhabhi,” Asma said, taking up her sister’s song. “Look at how much his love for you has already changed him! You must keep trying … especially since he has come to you once, isn’t that right, isn’t that what Zeba Auntie has said, that she did not put on a show with the
walima
dinner, that he is capable,” she lowered her voice and gazed up at me, “that she saw in a dream that you are pregnant. No, Bhabhi, no, the family must remain together, it is the only right way, the child with his father, husband and wife … look at your sistercousin, Henna, is she not together with her husband again, is she not now happier? It is as Allah says: Peace is better.”
walima
dinner, that he is capable,” she lowered her voice and gazed up at me, “that she saw in a dream that you are pregnant. No, Bhabhi, no, the family must remain together, it is the only right way, the child with his father, husband and wife … look at your sistercousin, Henna, is she not together with her husband again, is she not now happier? It is as Allah says: Peace is better.”
ONCE AGAIN, I was sleeping beside his mother while he slept on the
takat
with Ibrahim. This time, no faceless demon invaded my sleep to make me restless. Now I was relieved he had been ordered away, by his mother again, during these days of mourning when contact between husband and wife was prohibited. Certainly, there was no threat of such an intimacy, this was just a show put on by his mother.
takat
with Ibrahim. This time, no faceless demon invaded my sleep to make me restless. Now I was relieved he had been ordered away, by his mother again, during these days of mourning when contact between husband and wife was prohibited. Certainly, there was no threat of such an intimacy, this was just a show put on by his mother.
At night, now, it was not Zeba’s snoring keeping me awake, but
drums beating in different parts of the neighborhood, celebrating Ganesh. As the tenth of Muhar’ram grew nearer and our mourning intensified, so, too, did the jovial pounding. What had once been a faint sound springing up here and there, most often heard while we were rickshawing to the Old City, was now insistent, all-encompassing, drums beating on top of drums with no pause, the Imams’ martyrdom, Yezid’s victory, seeming to come to life.
drums beating in different parts of the neighborhood, celebrating Ganesh. As the tenth of Muhar’ram grew nearer and our mourning intensified, so, too, did the jovial pounding. What had once been a faint sound springing up here and there, most often heard while we were rickshawing to the Old City, was now insistent, all-encompassing, drums beating on top of drums with no pause, the Imams’ martyrdom, Yezid’s victory, seeming to come to life.
At dawn on the seventh day of Muhar’ram, of Ganpati, the muezzin’s voice struggled over this other calling. The family rose from bed and, following tradition, shed our black clothes to don green, the color of Islam, of submission. The color of that
walima
dinner. I went into the drawing room and waited for Sameer’s family to gather so we could pray, becoming—at least in appearance—what this seventh day ordained: fakirs before Allah, surrendering our will to his, accepting our fates without complaint.
walima
dinner. I went into the drawing room and waited for Sameer’s family to gather so we could pray, becoming—at least in appearance—what this seventh day ordained: fakirs before Allah, surrendering our will to his, accepting our fates without complaint.
Sameer, of course, was dressed in his Western clothes, refusing his mother’s insistence to throw on a green shirt just as he had refused to wear black all week. He was still lying where he now slept on the
takat,
reading the newspaper, and his long legs reached just beyond the edge so his feet dangled. I did not ask him to join us in prayer. Still, when the family had finally come together, they waited for me to invite him, father, mother, and younger son huddled at the entrance of the prayer room. At last, Ibrahim cleared his throat and Sameer looked up. For a moment, he seemed not to recognize his own family, then he blinked, and the newspaper fell from his hands.
takat,
reading the newspaper, and his long legs reached just beyond the edge so his feet dangled. I did not ask him to join us in prayer. Still, when the family had finally come together, they waited for me to invite him, father, mother, and younger son huddled at the entrance of the prayer room. At last, Ibrahim cleared his throat and Sameer looked up. For a moment, he seemed not to recognize his own family, then he blinked, and the newspaper fell from his hands.
He turned away from this image, eyes shutting tight. He shook his head and jumped up on the
takat,
his scalp perilously close to the rotating blades of the ceiling fan. Zeba gasped and yelled out that he could get killed. He ignored her and, without glancing at me, pushed on his black boots and raced for the front door. Zeba began chasing him, her black
duppatta
replaced by a green one I’d never seen. She stopped in the middle of the
divan,
one arm stretched toward Sameer as he mounted his bike, pleading for him not to leave, the other reaching back toward Feroz, wiggling fingers bidding him to help. I wondered if
she and Feroz would actually drag my husband back into the house as they had me.
takat,
his scalp perilously close to the rotating blades of the ceiling fan. Zeba gasped and yelled out that he could get killed. He ignored her and, without glancing at me, pushed on his black boots and raced for the front door. Zeba began chasing him, her black
duppatta
replaced by a green one I’d never seen. She stopped in the middle of the
divan,
one arm stretched toward Sameer as he mounted his bike, pleading for him not to leave, the other reaching back toward Feroz, wiggling fingers bidding him to help. I wondered if
she and Feroz would actually drag my husband back into the house as they had me.
Just as Feroz was stepping toward her, Ibrahim gripped his arm, shaking his head.
“But, Papa,” Feroz protested, the
surma
around his eyes growing heavier with each passing day of mourning, a sign, like the razor’s scars on his chest, exhibiting his faith, “who will accompany Mummy to the
manjalis?”
surma
around his eyes growing heavier with each passing day of mourning, a sign, like the razor’s scars on his chest, exhibiting his faith, “who will accompany Mummy to the
manjalis?”
What he meant, of course, was who would guard over me?
WHILE WE PRAYED, the drums beat into our skin, trying to get in, more apparent than Allah’s silent glory.
When we were done, Ibrahim announced that we would stay home that day and hold a family
manjalis.
Each year, Ibrahim was awarded twenty days of holiday, and he took them all during religious occasions. So the entire week, he and Feroz had been traveling to the Old City together, leaving before noon prayers and arriving home past midnight. Unlike the women’s
manjalises,
men’s gatherings happened throughout the day and night, the beating of chests as persistent, in that part of the city, as the beating of drums was here.
manjalis.
Each year, Ibrahim was awarded twenty days of holiday, and he took them all during religious occasions. So the entire week, he and Feroz had been traveling to the Old City together, leaving before noon prayers and arriving home past midnight. Unlike the women’s
manjalises,
men’s gatherings happened throughout the day and night, the beating of chests as persistent, in that part of the city, as the beating of drums was here.
“As I once told Layla,” he explained, rubbing his bald scalp in tight circles, “it is not safe for people to travel at such a time. Before, I had mentioned to her the dangers for a young couple, and now I will say that two women alone are even more vulnerable. It is true that the four of us could go together to the Old City, but once there, we would have to separate, attend different
manjalises.
There is no guarantee we would be able to find each other again. There is such chaos, and everyone is dressed in black, women are hard to find …” he stopped and glanced at me, his fingers tapping the prayer rug. Once more, the consideration of how to utter the unimaginable, rape, murder, the methods to put out the light of a community. “That main highway is deserted,” he finally said, “and I will not take the chance of two women coming back by themselves … in the dark.”
manjalises.
There is no guarantee we would be able to find each other again. There is such chaos, and everyone is dressed in black, women are hard to find …” he stopped and glanced at me, his fingers tapping the prayer rug. Once more, the consideration of how to utter the unimaginable, rape, murder, the methods to put out the light of a community. “That main highway is deserted,” he finally said, “and I will not take the chance of two women coming back by themselves … in the dark.”
So it was resolved, the other threat left unspoken: my freeing myself of Zeba’s grip and escaping. Zeba rolled up her prayer rug and disappeared into the kitchen to start breakfast, while Feroz clapped at what he said was a wise decision.
The day passed as any other, except Feroz now took up his brother’s chair in the
divan.
As usual, I kept myself confined to the bedroom with nothing to do but lie in bed and reassure myself that I would find a way out. I kept the door closed against them.
divan.
As usual, I kept myself confined to the bedroom with nothing to do but lie in bed and reassure myself that I would find a way out. I kept the door closed against them.
That evening, about the time Zeba and I used to set out for the Old City, she came and knocked on my bedroom door. A clean sheet had been spread on the
takat,
on top of the Pakistani rug, and before it, the door to the prayer room was open, candles and incense emanating fragrant fumes. She had already set the table, plates covering the rice and curry, the food we would later eat in honor of our Imams.
takat,
on top of the Pakistani rug, and before it, the door to the prayer room was open, candles and incense emanating fragrant fumes. She had already set the table, plates covering the rice and curry, the food we would later eat in honor of our Imams.
We gathered on the sheet as we did in the prayer room, Feroz beside his father, I beside Zeba. The three took turns reciting dirges (my parents hadn’t trained me in their melody), and when it was Zeba’s turn, her voice rising high and off-tune, fully confident, a motorcycle pulled up at the front gates. Her voice broke and her eyes glanced up at the Arabic plaques in the prayer room—a silent thanks to Allah—before she began reading again. She must have assumed as I did, as the rest of us did, that it was Sameer. But right when it was time to join her in chorus, singing about our saints falling from horseback, slain by the enemy troops, an unfamiliar voice called over the boundary wall, intruding on this ancient grief. Ibrahim gestured for us to continue, and he rose unsteadily and went out. We finished the dirge without him, gazes wandering from the prayer room to the front door. Finally, Feroz got up and left. Zeba and I sat in silence, the men’s voices not reaching us. After a while, she closed the book of hymns and tightened the
duppatta
around me.
duppatta
around me.
“They say our Imams attend every
manjalis,
invisible to us,” she said. “This can only be the devil.”
manjalis,
invisible to us,” she said. “This can only be the devil.”
THE THREE MUSLIM families that had once gathered in our courtyard to meet the new bride were now gathered together to meet the new stranger in our midst. This time, the husbands had come along, as frail and aged as Ibrahim, making Feroz the strongest one among us, this, the one whom I had once mistaken for being younger than me. Everyone was wearing green, except the stranger, who was in orange: a follower of Ganesh. He was like the flower, the nectar, that we, a flock of mynahs, had flown to for sustenance.
He called himself a friend. A friend of peace, a friend of someone who knew this family, a good person to whom he owed this favor. And, in this way, a friend to us. He had come bearing a warning: that night, our block, our houses, our families had been targeted. By whom? For what reason? For what benefit? There was no reason to ask such questions when all our lives we had been reading about these incidents in newspapers, swapping stories with each other: neighborhoods burned, houses looted, everyone murdered. The history of the Indian streets as much part of us as the history of our Imams. We knew better than to complain that such an ill fate could not be ours. Indeed, for all I had reassured Asma and Zenath about the safety of the Old City walls, I had overlooked, being as imprisoned as I was, how I was still out in the open. Only four Muslim families in this neighborhood. Outnumbered.
The plump mother of the two daughters crossed her arms over her chest, as though cuddling her breasts. She had left the girls at home, anticipating, as Zeba had, what this new friend of ours had come to say, and so protecting them in the only way left to her.
GANGS USUALLY CONTAINED ten members. All young men. All ablebodied. All bearing weapons.
Before jumping back on his motorcycle, our friend ran his pinkie across one of Feroz’s eyelids, then held it up for us, the skin smudged black with
surma.
surma.
“Lock yourselves in your houses and pray,” he said. “Your lives are
now in the hands of the one who created them.” He rode away in the frail evening light, the single beam of his headlamp an obscure path to safety that receded in his wake.
now in the hands of the one who created them.” He rode away in the frail evening light, the single beam of his headlamp an obscure path to safety that receded in his wake.
For a while, no one spoke. The street was strangely quiet, deserted—where were all those women and men who had come out to watch this new bride exiting her red wedding car, the ones who later witnessed the brass band breaking up and leaving, Zehra’s son having run off with his Hindu beloved? Did they know what misery was about to befall us now, would they later come out and watch the spectacle? Don’t trust them!
Them? Us and Them.
Already my mind was working in the way these culprits had wanted, seeing only the divisions, even between the very people we had thus far been living next to in peace.
The plump mother shrieked and covered her face with her green
duppatta.
duppatta.
“Our own houses our tombs,” Zehra said, looking about at the squat structures. Then she met her husband’s eyes. “It is good our son fled. It is good he is not here. At least now, he will survive, he will not …” her voice trembled and broke.
“My daughters!” the mother yelled as she tightened the
duppatta
over her face, as though trying to suffocate herself. Her husband bowed his head.
duppatta
over her face, as though trying to suffocate herself. Her husband bowed his head.
Lubna, the tall one with moles on her eyelids, repeated what she had the last time she’d come over. “Allah blessed me by not giving me children. What could I explain to them of this world?”
US. THEM.
The mother began demanding that we leave.
The father said, Where would we go? We cannot go. We have no car. It’s dark. Who’s going to travel alone on a moped to find an auto-rickshaw? Twenty minutes there. Twenty minutes back. And what if that person doesn’t come back? It’s better to stay together.
Yes, it’s better for us to continue to remain as one.
So it was decided. The women would stay inside the houses. Each to her own home. Better to be separated. Better chance, that way, of some of us escaping. Surviving. Of not being raped. Stay in the innermost room. Lock all doors that lead to it. Bolt shut the windows. Be thankful for the iron bars.
Should we get the police?
The Chow-Rasta Jail-
khanna
is on a lonely highway. Near a wooded area.
khanna
is on a lonely highway. Near a wooded area.
Does no one have a phone? Do you think one of our … neighbors might?
Who would you call? Who can help us? No one’s going to come here.
The police …
The police are conspirators. Why do you think these things go on and on? And now it’s come to us.
Yes, it will be easier for all if we accept that it is now our time.
Fakirs before Allah.
The men, we agreed, would stay together. Take shifts sleeping. All of them, all five of them, four old, one young, would crowd on top of the roof of the house that belonged to the family who lived down the street, the first house these culprits would get to, the one with the two pretty daughters. And the house from where our men could spot them the soonest.
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