Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel (9 page)
Read Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel Online
Authors: Samina Ali
Dad threw back his aching head to rest his neck against the top of the chair. He called Ahmed to come massage him, then closed his eyes. The conversation was over.
Henna and I stopped near the men and salaamed each. Across the salon, in Amme’s room, I could see the flash of flowing saris as my mother and aunts carefully dressed themselves for the evening’s ceremony Though the two families had known each other for seven generations—Sameer’s family had rented from Amme’s up till Partition—what mattered tonight was a different, much older tradition. As the bride’s family, the ones who were about to hand over a daughter to live in someone else’s home, we were now the ones without the power. Every preparation made for the wedding was in hopes of impressing my in-laws.
Dad opened his eyes and stared up at us. Then his gaze wandered down to Henna’s belly. He said, “After her husband died, my sister raised two children on her own. She’s now forty and they’re grown, yet the strangest thing just happened!” His light eyes widened to show his surprise, even disbelief. “She received a marriage proposal. The man is a Saudi. He’s going to give her dowry and take her back with him. Customs are changing, Henna. These outsiders come in, they stir things up, they make things possible. These walls,” he said as he spun a graceful hand in the air to indicate the city’s stone walls, “sometimes the only way to build a life here is to get out.”
Henna lowered her head as she hid her belly behind me. The only man in Saudi she wanted was her own husband. But how could Dad understand that, the man who had so easily swapped one family for another?
Taqi Mamu stuck a pinkie in the air to signal he had to run to the bathroom, but when he got to the center of the courtyard, he swerved left toward the alley, just as I knew he would. He’d gone out to smoke. Abu Uncle tapped his chest with his three middle fingers, and I realized
it was his paunch that had prevented me from noticing before just how frail he had become, his shoulders slumping, the shirt that had been cut to his size now loose around his weakened form. He didn’t look up at his daughter. I tugged her along to my room, where I knew Nafiza was waiting, my second wedding dress ironed and laid out.
it was his paunch that had prevented me from noticing before just how frail he had become, his shoulders slumping, the shirt that had been cut to his size now loose around his weakened form. He didn’t look up at his daughter. I tugged her along to my room, where I knew Nafiza was waiting, my second wedding dress ironed and laid out.
Behind us, Abu Uncle was describing his heart attack and the medication he was required to take for life. He wanted to know if Dad agreed with the local doctor’s assessment. And just as he had with Henna, Dad was once more giving counsel on how to mend a broken heart.
HENNA AND NAFIZA stood me in front of the dresser, its long glass still veiled behind the sequined cloth. They positioned themselves on either side of me, my nanny coming up to my shoulders, Henna eye-to-eye, her belly bumping up against my own hardened one. Together, they began to unzip and unhook, unwind and undo the layers of my kurta
-chooridar.
When they had me undressed, Nafiza dusted my hands and feet, my face and neck, those parts of my body that would be exposed to my in-laws, with powder two tones lighter than my natural color. She wanted me to look fair, which here meant she wanted me to look beautiful. As she was rubbing my stomach and thighs with scented oils, Henna wrapped Nate’s letters in the previous night’s wedding kurta then slid the bundle into a dresser drawer, neatly, quietly, Nafiza not noticing.
-chooridar.
When they had me undressed, Nafiza dusted my hands and feet, my face and neck, those parts of my body that would be exposed to my in-laws, with powder two tones lighter than my natural color. She wanted me to look fair, which here meant she wanted me to look beautiful. As she was rubbing my stomach and thighs with scented oils, Henna wrapped Nate’s letters in the previous night’s wedding kurta then slid the bundle into a dresser drawer, neatly, quietly, Nafiza not noticing.
The two combed and plaited my hair, and when the imam began tapping the loudspeaker, ready to announce the evening azan, they draped a
duppatta
over my head before covering their own. The entire house went quiet, including the musicians. This was what my family did each time the azan rang through the skies, our single gesture of respect. No one headed to the prayer room or to the local mosque. When the azan concluded, another began from a different
masjid,
but it was enough to have honored one call. The musicians started up again, accompanying the lamb’s singing. The men’s voices resumed on the
verandah. Henna and Nafiza carefully removed my second wedding dress from the
almari
, a short top embroidered with pearls along the collar and waist, a wide silk skirt, and a six-foot-long veil. If the first night’s wedding dress had been a pale gold, shyly announcing the commencement of my wedding, this one was brighter and bolder, the evolution of a bride.
duppatta
over my head before covering their own. The entire house went quiet, including the musicians. This was what my family did each time the azan rang through the skies, our single gesture of respect. No one headed to the prayer room or to the local mosque. When the azan concluded, another began from a different
masjid,
but it was enough to have honored one call. The musicians started up again, accompanying the lamb’s singing. The men’s voices resumed on the
verandah. Henna and Nafiza carefully removed my second wedding dress from the
almari
, a short top embroidered with pearls along the collar and waist, a wide silk skirt, and a six-foot-long veil. If the first night’s wedding dress had been a pale gold, shyly announcing the commencement of my wedding, this one was brighter and bolder, the evolution of a bride.
They dressed me carefully, zipping up and clipping on, hooking together the various fabrics. By the time they had lowered the veil over my face and Nafiza had reminded me to keep my head bowed in modesty, a car honked outside the gates. Amme’s voice rang out, shrill over the music, shooing away the men. Wood scraped along the verandah tiles as the chairs were hauled away The
dol
and
shenai
began rising in a crescendo. Nafiza slipped out of the room; Henna slid her arm through mine and led me to the center of the salon. The women from my side of the family passed hands over my veiled head, then cracked knuckles against their temples to do away with the evil eye. Henna seated me on the low stool before she slowly eased herself onto the floor beside me. Under the layers of the wedding dress, I held her hand.
dol
and
shenai
began rising in a crescendo. Nafiza slipped out of the room; Henna slid her arm through mine and led me to the center of the salon. The women from my side of the family passed hands over my veiled head, then cracked knuckles against their temples to do away with the evil eye. Henna seated me on the low stool before she slowly eased herself onto the floor beside me. Under the layers of the wedding dress, I held her hand.
The lights were put out and the courtyard glowed in celebration colors. Candles were lit and secured into brass holders, placed on the floor on top of the white sheets. I rested a cheek on my knees as I watched the proceedings through the veil.
The women from my family formed two lines on the verandah and raised their arms over their heads, red fabric held between them, a silk arch that flowed down the steps, into the courtyard. Nafiza opened the gate, and the women from Sameer’s family entered: small girls followed by adolescents followed by women, the span of a life. Each one passed under the arch, as I would soon pass under the arched Dabir Pura Gate to reach my husbands house. They carried in silver trays filled with sweetmeats, perfumes and oils, jasmine and rose flowers, jewels, all the things I had seen last night, and then this: a shimmering red wedding dress, its gilded silk embroidered gold; and, finally, an emerald green sari threaded with silver, intended for me to wear the
fifth night of the wedding, concluding the celebrations by announcing a successful union. Yet it was not the wedding adornments and dresses, but his relatives’ faces, which I’d not seen since the engagement, that knocked up against the hard numbness and shock I had thus far been feeling and turned it into knowledge. I was getting married.
fifth night of the wedding, concluding the celebrations by announcing a successful union. Yet it was not the wedding adornments and dresses, but his relatives’ faces, which I’d not seen since the engagement, that knocked up against the hard numbness and shock I had thus far been feeling and turned it into knowledge. I was getting married.
Sameer’s mother, Zeba, stepped in last. The gold of her sari matched the gold of my wedding dress, and over it, she wore a black
duppatta
that covered her head and shoulders. Amme and she greeted each other, my mother’s flashy sari and jewels glowing more brightly than the wedding lights. Zeba’s only jewelry consisted of red glass bangles that encircled one wrist. Renter and landowner, childhood friends, and now this, fellow mothers-in-law A strange formality erected itself between the two women, as palpable as the
dhan dhinak dhin
of the
dol
, and it took three clumsy attempts before they were able to embrace.
duppatta
that covered her head and shoulders. Amme and she greeted each other, my mother’s flashy sari and jewels glowing more brightly than the wedding lights. Zeba’s only jewelry consisted of red glass bangles that encircled one wrist. Renter and landowner, childhood friends, and now this, fellow mothers-in-law A strange formality erected itself between the two women, as palpable as the
dhan dhinak dhin
of the
dol
, and it took three clumsy attempts before they were able to embrace.
The lights switched back on. Amme led Zeba over to me and asked her to sit down. As my mother-in-law took her place before the short stool, Sameer’s relatives encircled me, while my mother and aunts moved back against the walls to watch the celebrations from afar. That was how I glimpsed what it could be like for me in my new family: I might actually belong.
Before she began the ceremony, Zeba raised her palms and the women became silent, as we had earlier at the sound of the azan. Someone stopped the musicians and Zeba led everyone in prayer. Unlike Amme, who closed her eyes whenever she recited, Zeba’s gaze, through my wedding veil, remained so focused on my face that I was reminded of her son, and it was I who closed my eyes, silently making a prayer of my own, the show of mercy I wanted finally taking form. The form of my husband: let him not cast me out.
The prayers completed, Zeba gently fed me ladu to sweeten my mouth, and the women shouted,
“Alhum-du-illah.
” The musicians were asked not to play during the ceremony, and the women themselves remained quiet, attentive to Zeba, quickly handing her what she needed. With strong, steady movements, my mother-in-law performed the
long ritual of applying oils and perfumes, draping me in flowers. Then she adorned me with the traditional Hyderabadi Muslim jewels: a pearl and emerald necklace of seven strands that hung to my navel, a matching pearl choker as wide as my wrist, diamond and pearl earrings so heavy I feared they would tear my lobes, ruby and emerald rings for each finger, silver ones for my toes, gold bracelets that clinked with each movement of the wrist, a pearl strand to cover the center of my hair part, and, finally, a nose loop ring as wide as my cheek, which Zeba had had the jeweler, specifically for me, mold into a clip-on. My mother-in-law’s touch remained confident throughout, and with each additional motion of her hand, each jewel and oil that went on, I began to believe in this process of renewal. A girl transforming into a woman, a daughter into a wife, it was magical.
“Alhum-du-illah.
” The musicians were asked not to play during the ceremony, and the women themselves remained quiet, attentive to Zeba, quickly handing her what she needed. With strong, steady movements, my mother-in-law performed the
long ritual of applying oils and perfumes, draping me in flowers. Then she adorned me with the traditional Hyderabadi Muslim jewels: a pearl and emerald necklace of seven strands that hung to my navel, a matching pearl choker as wide as my wrist, diamond and pearl earrings so heavy I feared they would tear my lobes, ruby and emerald rings for each finger, silver ones for my toes, gold bracelets that clinked with each movement of the wrist, a pearl strand to cover the center of my hair part, and, finally, a nose loop ring as wide as my cheek, which Zeba had had the jeweler, specifically for me, mold into a clip-on. My mother-in-law’s touch remained confident throughout, and with each additional motion of her hand, each jewel and oil that went on, I began to believe in this process of renewal. A girl transforming into a woman, a daughter into a wife, it was magical.
When she had made me into the image of a perfect bride, she leaned into me, as the women of my family had the previous night when they’d whispered their secrets.
Zeba said, “I have come here tonight not wearing any jewels, for I no longer have need for them. I have passed everything my mother-in-law gave to me on to you. You are now my only jewel, the jewel of my family.”
She kissed my forehead through the veil, then asked Henna to join my family against the wall. Two women from Sameer’s family rose and came to either side of me. Together, they lifted my yellow brocade veil and, in its place, Zeba draped a red one, pulling it down to my feet, claiming this new bride as her own.
HENNA SLOWLY UNWOUND her sari, letting it fall to the floor around her feet, a pool of shimmering gold. She slid open the slit of the thick mosquito netting and slipped inside, crawling up the bed to nestle next to me. She was wearing just her petticoat and tight sari-blouse, and her bare belly thrust into the curve of my lower back. The room was dark. The overhead fan lifeless on this cool night that promised monsoons. The dowry bed was pushed into a corner, beneath two windows, the
shutters flung open to a view of the inner courtyard. The only sound came from the lamb munching on fallen guava leaves as it satisfied itself before the slaughter. The swollen moon filled a window frame. Its silver light reminded me of the
walima
sari, and I thought of how, in just under a week, the desperation I’d felt in wanting to cancel the wedding had become a desperation in wanting it to succeed.
shutters flung open to a view of the inner courtyard. The only sound came from the lamb munching on fallen guava leaves as it satisfied itself before the slaughter. The swollen moon filled a window frame. Its silver light reminded me of the
walima
sari, and I thought of how, in just under a week, the desperation I’d felt in wanting to cancel the wedding had become a desperation in wanting it to succeed.
Henna began unhooking the back of my wedding top. Her fingers glided inside and pushed the fabric aside as she made her way up to my breast. She passed a hand under my bra and cupped me, her body curling into itself, as much over the belly as possible, her nose poking into the back of my neck. When she spoke, I felt her breath tease my skin.
“I want to know what he felt when he touched me,” she whispered.
I placed my hand over hers and squeezed it to let her feel the contours of my flesh, those parts I’d been told to keep hidden from all men but my husband. What had I been thinking to allow Nate to slip inside? Different worlds, and in each I was a different woman, unrecognizable even to myself. I was like the two faces of the moon, new and full, one always veiled behind the other.
And now, finally, I could feel the other woman in me stirring awake, alive to where she was, taking form inside her wedding dress. It was Zeba’s steady touch that had called her forth. A daughter’s only home is with her husband, that was what was believed here. And tonight, as I wore the jewels Zeba had once worn herself, I understood how that could be possible.
I squeezed into Henna even more as I asked her to tell me about her wedding night.
She drew her hand out from under mine and slid it down the long stretch of my body She found my wrist and encircled it with her thumb and pinkie, then held my palm up to the moonlight. Fingertips stroked the mehndi designs from base to tips, slowly spreading the fingers open.
“My husband took a long time to find his initials … but I think he took his time on purpose. I remember his fingers gliding down my
palm. Just that light touch…” she imitated the caress, and I thought of Nate. Not of the first time I had held his hand, but of the first time I had uttered his name. Out of respect, a woman here did not use a man’s name, so it was this small gesture, his allowing me to say his name, his expecting it, and my doing so, in public, in the quiet of my bed, calling, whispering, sighing his name, that had made him a part of me long before he had slid inside.
palm. Just that light touch…” she imitated the caress, and I thought of Nate. Not of the first time I had held his hand, but of the first time I had uttered his name. Out of respect, a woman here did not use a man’s name, so it was this small gesture, his allowing me to say his name, his expecting it, and my doing so, in public, in the quiet of my bed, calling, whispering, sighing his name, that had made him a part of me long before he had slid inside.
“Are you scared?” she asked.
I closed my hand over hers and pressed it to my own swollen belly. “It was his letters,” I said. “For a whole year, it’s all he wrote about. The different ways in which he would … pornographic!”
She surprised me by laughing and tugged me close. A cramp shot through my stomach and I ignored it, as I was learning to do. “You’ve grown up in America, Layla, how could you not know such things! He’s a man. You’re the first woman he’s had access to. What do you think is on his mind! A whole year? It’s probably the only thing he’s been thinking about for a whole ten years. Oh, Layla,” she muttered as she buried her nose in my hair, still giggling. “Layla, Layla, do not be in the darkness, as your name suggests.”
She was right, of course, and though I felt foolish before her for my reaction, I could not deny how his words, his descriptions, had caused me to draw away, repelled. It was how I had felt the past two mornings when I had entered the salon and found the door to Dad’s room still shut, the image of what he and Sabana were doing inside floating up in me, forcing my eyes closed. I wanted nothing more to do with him.
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