Revenge (12 page)

“What are you looking at,” he asked, his hands stroking my cheeks.

“Your girl . . . ”

“The woman in my painting? She was called Suranjana. I asked her never to leave me, but she did—for another man,” he said, looking me straight in the eye.

“And then?”

“The man took off all her clothes . . . ”

“And then?”

“And then he kissed her.” Afzal was lifting my chin, kissing me.

“And then?”

“He made her run off with him—to a place far away.”

“How far away?”

“So far away I’ll never be able to reach her.”

“And the place?”

“A place across seven seas and thirteen rivers.”

We were hurling dreams like roses, swimming up through azure waves of some distant ocean.

I couldn’t have placed what I was doing in my actual life at that moment even if I’d wanted to. Perhaps I wasn’t there at all. Perhaps I had been incarnated into my beloved Shipra
and it was she who was surrendering to these caresses. But it was my body that was coming to life, resounding with each stroke of this man’s hands. How could I be enjoying pleasure with an utter stranger? Despite my romantic character, I was a traditional girl, a
bou
, and yet, here I was, throwing a lifetime of training to the winds. I had guarded my virginity in order to bestow a chaste body on my husband on my wedding night. I had never desired any man but Haroon. What was happening to me? Maybe this man and his bed, this man and his melancholy eyes and tender hands and taut body were a chimera, a delusion. Any moment Amma’s voice would sound, bringing me back to the kitchen.

“Jhumur, why are you here?” I was startled by his sudden question, shaken. So this wasn’t a dream. I was not Shipra, but Jhumur, the upstairs
bou
.

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice quavering.

“You don’t, really?” he reached to take my chin in his hands, but I pulled back, suddenly frightened of what I was doing. I rolled over, placing my bare feet firmly on the floor.

“You said you wanted to paint me . . . ” I said.

“I only paint nudes,” Afzal answered, looking boldly at my body, my loosened clothes. My head was spinning. He sounded as if he were intoxicated.

I was not sure if it was my silence that encouraged him or whether he was a man always ready for a challenge. I didn’t want to think at all as Afzal unfastened my blouse, caressing my body. My loosened hair fell from bondage onto his bare shoulders, my fingers played with his hair, his stubbled cheeks, his lips, the tangle of curls on his chest. He
was watching the rise of my breasts. He was lavishing me with love.

The sudden sound of the telephone above us sent me, hair in disarray, pulling on my blouse, wrapping my sari, up the stairs. Rosuni opened the door, but she was alone in the apartment. I didn’t speak to her, or ask who was on the phone. I headed straight to the bathroom, into the shower. As the water fell, the colors of Afzal’s lovemaking, the sensuality of our bodies washed over my body with the water. But I would not emerge from this bath fresh and pure—my life had been shaken. Was I responsible? Or was Afzal? Perhaps our encounter had been a gift from the gods of passion, an exercise of their own pleasure. Impersonal. Pure. Tears soaked my pillow as I lay my head to rest. That night, when Haroon came to bed, I asked permission to go to Wari for a few days.

“Why do you want to go there?”

“Oh please . . . ”

“Why go there? You clearly have no reason to . . . ” His voice was brusque. “Hasan is ill in the hospital. Everyone in the family is worried sick and you want to go to Wari and enjoy yourself! I’m shocked how little you care for our family!”

I got up and went to the window. Soon I was weeping, but in silence. Haroon couldn’t hear my tears, but I could hear him toss and turn.“Why are you standing there like an apparition?” I was no sooner back in bed than he began to make love to me. Now his voice changed to a tone of love. “My darling, please. I want a baby,” he said, tenderness
breaking his voice.

“And so that is why you won’t let me go to see my parents. You want a son and you must have me every night.” Abruptly, he pulled out of me.

“I won’t allow you to sleep around with your old boy-friends! You are my wife! Have your parents come here!”

I said nothing, and soon he was asleep. As I lay there sleepless, any guilt I had about my dalliance with Afzal disappeared like receding clouds.

H
asan’s hospital stay was eating up time and money and the life of the family. Every day, on the way back from the office, Haroon went to see him, and Amma, Dolon, and Ranu remained at the bedside. The house, therefore, was deserted virtually every afternoon, and, as for the flat downstairs, Sebati’s maid and cook were gone by noon, and Anwar never got home before evening, and Sebati rarely did.

No one had an inkling of our affair—Haroon was not even aware that I had met Sebati’s brother-in-law. As for picking up the odor of another man, he was so intent on getting me pregnant, he hardly paid attention to me when we made love. I tried to tell myself that I was involved with Afzal only to shake off the feeling of loneliness that had come with my marriage, but I couldn’t help comparing my husband to my eager lover, and I was increasingly indifferent to Haroon’s advances. One night I decided I wanted just to sleep.

“Get off,” I said, pushing him away.

“Why?”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why?”

“I’m sleepy.”

“Sleep later!”

“I’m not feeling well.”

“What’s wrong.”

“I have a stomachache.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“No,” I said flatly.

It was the first time I had ever refused him, and I felt a particular glee, even triumph. When he turned his back to go to sleep, a warning wound through my brain: “Don’t dare touch me, Haroon. My body carries the signature of another man. Your bride is an adulterer. She has become what you have accused her of.”

I was not without conflict, however. After several weeks, I found myself assailed by a flood of doubt. I grew pale, and would forget things, adding salt to the curry twice, letting the pilaf burn to cinders. Was I pregnant again? I tried to calm down, carrying on a dialogue with myself. I loved Haroon. I was the one who had wanted to marry him. But right after marriage, he had become cold and emotionally distant, and then he had forced me to abort our child. In my position as
bou
, I felt isolated and abandoned. Of course I was angry. Why was it then, that I had continued, until meeting Afzal, feeling desire for Haroon? It seemed just as mysterious that I had barely hesitated to break my marriage vows. On the other hand, I couldn’t understand my feelings for Afzal. It couldn’t be love, could it? Our lovemaking took place in some otherworldly dimension. I was wildly attracted to him,
but love? Again and again I asked myself who I loved and again and again I found myself confused. Why was I not taking steps to leave Haroon and go off with Afzal?

An easy answer soon came to me. My instinct told me that Afzal couldn’t be trusted. If he had come to me so easily, what would prevent him from going off with any woman who presented herself? Had I allowed myself to leap so quickly into an illicit relationship with Afzal because I knew somehow that I couldn’t count on him? Though I’d had my suffering with Haroon, I was enough of a traditionalist to believe that marriage was for life. I couldn’t bring myself to live with the disgrace of divorce, as Parul did. And we had been married such a short time. Surely things could get better. That being the case, why wasn’t I content to wait things out with Haroon instead of turning to another man? For days, I struggled with my conscience, and at last the
bou
won out. I did love my husband, I decided. But there was something else nagging at me. I had to find release from the mental and emotional prison in which tradition had incarcerated me. Suddenly a shocking thought came into my mind. What if I became pregnant by Afzal, not by Haroon? My child would be the fruit of my independence.

In our conversations about our lives and the women she treated, Sebati and I had often discussed women’s cycles and the times when they are most fertile. I decided that I would remain aloof from Haroon during those days. I would therefore not be offering him a body ready to conceive, but a fallow womb instead. It would be my pleasure to watch him wait foolishly, day after day, for his child to begin. As I thought about my plan, I had no guilt—I was not a loose
woman, I was merely taking my revenge, getting even. Except for this deception, I followed all the rules of society. I took care of Haroon and his family, kept them happy and well-fed while living a desolate, friendless existence. I had the right to claim something in return.

A couple of days after I made this decision, my mother called and asked me to come home. My sister Nupur’s daughter was having a birthday party, and Nupur would be in Wari for a week. I was unenthusiastic—I didn’t want to be kept from Afzal. Hearing I was reluctant, Ma sent my father to Haroon’s office to seek his permission. That very evening Haroon returned home. “Why not go? A week seems long, but why don’t you go for the party at least?” I was silent.

“Have you suddenly lost your enthusiasm for Wari?” he asked. “You’ve been asking to go, and they want you so much. I’ll come with you.”

“Absolutely not.”

Haroon assumed I was angry with Nupur and was pleased that I seemed to have cooled toward my family. It was what he had always wanted. And then, days later, Amma suggested I visit Auntie Kumud, and I asked Haroon if I should.

“Of course you must. Ma wants to take you along.” And so I went over to Auntie Kumud’s house, my head dutifully covered. My family, especially Nupur, were hurt and mystified that I had refused their invitation and assumed I had finally surrendered irreversibly to my in-laws. My friend Parul called to give me the news. My mother was weeping silently over it, she told me, and my father sat morose by the hour. Nupur was so agitated she had slapped her little girl.

“How did you get my phone number, Parul?”

“Nupur gave it to me.”

“Did they ask you to call to tell me how they felt?”

“Not really—in fact Nupur was reluctant to give me your number. I had to beg for it.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, oh, the poor dear! I haven’t seen her for so long! She lives in Dhaka, yet I feel she’s as far away as Mumbai! I just want to hear her voice.”

“Do you think I’m unhappy?”

“Why should I think that? You married for love, didn’t you? You must be happy, no?”

“I’m happy, wondrously happy, running my husband’s house! Now we are looking forward to having a baby and we don’t want to be away from each other for even one night! Besides, it’s not proper to visit one’s parents so often.”

“You’ve hardly been here,” Parul exclaimed. “How would being with your parents for one night interrupt your plans for pregnancy?”

“It would,” I insisted. “If I see my mother’s face, I’ll produce a girl child. My mother had only girls—I mustn’t risk anything so inauspicious. I want to give birth to a son, not daughters!”

“What are you saying Jhumur?”

“Have I said something wrong?”

“You’re saying your mother is a bad omen. Who has a mother more loving than yours!” Parul’s voice rang with amazement.

“What a heartrending speech! You live with your parents. Do you feel close to them? You slave day and night not
knowing where you belong. You should be the last person to praise parents!”

That put an end to our conversation. I put the receiver down and splashed some water on my face. I wanted to be rid of all these demands. Parul would certainly report the conversation to Nupur, who would pass it on. I didn’t care. I didn’t want any friend or relative to seek me out. I didn’t want anything to interrupt my becoming pregnant by Afzal. I didn’t care if my parents were hurt or my sister agitated enough to strike her child.

Hasan was soon moved to a closer hospital. A piece of his fractured rib had pierced one of his lungs and another round of surgeries was required. Sebati arranged for a hospital transfer and for the operation and Amma and Haroon consulted with her day and night, inviting her to meals, buying her presents, including a beautiful sari. I was thrilled. One night, Amma declared Sebati an honorary daughter and asked her to be present at the hospital the day of the operation. Seeing Amma in such a benevolent mood, Sebati asked if I might be allowed to come down to her flat and help arrange her new furniture.

Amma was only too pleased to let me go and I ran downstairs, lighthearted. I assumed that Amma would tell Haroon where I was, should he call, and, as for herself, she didn’t mind if I spent the entire night if Sebati wanted me to. They knew no one in the medical profession. She was their only hope.

Anwar was away for work and Afzal out at an embassy party—he was in search of fellowship possibilities for study abroad. Shifting one of the paintings to make room for a
new table she had bought, Sebati exclaimed. “I have no idea what to do with Afzal! He paints only nudes! It embarrasses me in front of my friends.”

It was a painting I hadn’t seen before, and I was stunned when I got a look. Who was this new nude? A girl with long black hair down to her waist, eyes as dark as the depths of a pool, breasts round and firm, a blushing face. Could it be me? My throat went dry. I began to move things around to distract myself, deliberating where to put the table, a vase of flowers, the cane ottoman, potted plants. Sebati and I were deep in conversation. She was telling me that Anwar was incapable of giving her any sexual satisfaction and that she was paying a heavy price for marrying him. Her parents had wanted her to marry a doctor, but she had fallen for Anwar. Why refuse him? She discovered he was impotent on their wedding night, too late to change her mind. They had consulted psychiatrists, even sexologists, but nothing had succeeded.