Revenge (15 page)

“What did he have to say,” I asked.

“He said he loved children and wanted to become a father, but that Sebati wouldn’t agree. Her heart is set on a post-graduate degree in medicine.”

“Is that so?”

Whenever I was about to drop off to sleep, a faint sound of weeping would break the night silence. After Haroon dozed off, I tiptoed out and entered Dolon’s room, to find her sobbing, her face against the pillow. Going to her, I placed my hand on her shoulder.

“Why are you crying?” I asked. She ceased sobbing but didn’t reply at first, then she mumbled.

“I worry about Anis so much.”

“But why?”

“He’s all alone. He hates being without me. He won’t eat anyone else’s cooking and he doesn’t sleep without me
by his side.”

“Ask him to come here or else go home to him,” I said, stroking her gently. Dolon threw aside my hand and sat up.

“How can I go,
bhabi
? How can you even suggest that? Who will look after Hasan and Ranu? That slip of a girl does nothing. All she knows how to do is whine. How will Hasan ever recover with her as his wife?”

“But we are all taking care of Hasan—”

“No, no.” Dolon was weeping again. She said Hasan himself had complained of being neglected. His lungs had to be drained repeatedly, his left leg was so numb that he doubted he’d ever be able to use it again. And he was sure the wound was infected.

I stayed with Dolon until she dozed off, and then I returned to my bed. It was late, but there was too much for me to absorb to think of sleeping, so I went to stand at the window. The strong smell of night-blooming jasmine wafted in from the garden. I breathed, allowing the scent to fill my nostrils and my lungs. I had always heard that snakes come out of their burrows, lured by that night fragrance. I felt like going outdoors and lying on the earth, close to the moist fragrance of those sweet smelling flowers.

W
eeks passed and my abdomen grew heavy. Haroon decreed I was to do no more housework.

“But how will I pass the time?”

“You must rest a lot, eat plenty of vegetables, meat, and fruit.”

“I can’t eat that much food.”

“It’s for the child. It must be born healthy!”

Haroon brought all sorts of journals and newspapers home, and he placed a new television set in our bedroom. Now all I did was lie in bed all day and read and watch ridiculous TV shows. My room was fragrant with flowers, and I ate whatever Amma or Ranu cooked for me. Haroon now came home early; he got restless, he said. It was all he could do to stay at the office until noon. He arrived, laden with flowers and produce, fresh milk, fruit juice, the makings of hot chocolate. I could never consume all he brought, and so I passed it on to the family, and still there were always leftovers.

It shocked me how the precious burden in my womb altered my position in the household. Amma was forever
running into my room to make sure I was well or to bring me something scrumptious to eat. She liked to be able to tell Haroon that she was taking special care of me. That was no surprise. Mothers are totally beholden to their sons and go to great lengths to keep them in good humor even while keeping their daughters-in-law under a reign of terror. Certainly in our household, Haroon—and his money—called the shots.

As it was, everyone in the family followed Amma’s example, even good-for-nothing Habib. “
Bhabi
, do you want something?
Bhabi
, shall I fetch you a dish of cool sorbet?”

Poor Hasan, limping along on his crutches, came to pay his respects one day. For a while he sat by the window gazing soulfully at the sky, and then he burst out, “What’s there to dream of!” He and Ranu wanted to move to Saudi Arabia—“The skies are so wide there,” he’d told me one day, and I’d answered that it was not the sky that was different elsewhere, but other things. “Other things are insignificant to me,” he’d said. “The sky is all that matters.” Even though he had grown up in this very practical family, Hasan was a dreamer. He and Ranu got along well—secretly he brought her presents, oranges or a pretty compact. They actually seemed to be in love, a less complicated love than I felt toward Haroon.

How I relished the spectacle of Amma sewing tiny clothes for the soon to arrive infant, embroidering little jackets and hats. And the new Haroon who took me to the Dhanmundi clinic at intervals of a few days, warmly greeting Sebati, who was always there to guide us, even though she had a lot of work to do, and her post-graduate entrance exams were coming up.

When Haroon was at the office, I often chatted with Ranu. Unknotting my hair one day, she said, “You’re educated—no wonder everyone in the house respects you so.”

“Why do you say that? Do you feel overlooked?”

“That’s not it,” she said, pursing her lips.

“What then?”

“I have to cover myself whenever I go out, and you don’t.”

“You don’t have to either if you don’t want to,” I said.

“Amma would never allow me out unveiled. Besides, my husband doesn’t have a job. If he did, she would have nothing to say about whether I covered my head or not.”

Then one day, Ranu came crying into my room. “The police have arrested Anis,” she said.

“The police? Whatever for?”

“They have taken his two associates as well. Apparently they were involved in smuggling.”

“What are you saying?” I was thunderstruck, remembering my conversations with Dolon about how well her husband was doing in business. “Is that the reason Anis is staying on in Chittagong?”

“Must be.”

“Does Haroon know about this?”

“I’m sure he must.” Ranu said.

“What about Dolon?” She was here visiting us again, but I knew she was hell-bent on getting back to Chittagong.

“
Bhabi
, you’re so naive!” Ranu said. “Don’t you know Dolon’s father-in-law caught Anis with another woman the last time he was in Chittagong? It was Haroon who ordered Dolon straight back to Dhaka.”

So that was the real reason Dolon wept at night. I was speechless. Haroon had kept all of this from me. Ranu went on. “We are so grateful to you,
bhabi
. Haroon is bearing all our expenses. He is a god! If I were in your place, I would never have allowed it. Doesn’t it make you angry?”

“It’s complicated,” I replied, trying to sound indifferent.

“Don’t you want to live in a place of your own? I do.”

I laughed, taking her hand. I too had such dreams. A dream of life under an open sky. I have forgotten those dreams, I thought, forgotten even what a blue sky looks like!

Looking intently into my eyes, Ranu said, “Please, please ask Haroon to give him some money.”

“Which him is that?”

“Don’t you know? Him. My husband.”

I started to laugh out loud. She couldn’t speak Hasan’s name because he was her husband! But I swallowed my laughter. Wasn’t I bound by the same rules? I never uttered Haroon’s name in public. What was the difference between Ranu and me, between Amma and me, between Dolon and me? We all lived under the same constraints!

“Please, please ask Haroon to set him up in some business.”

“Why doesn’t Hasan talk to Haroon directly?”

“He’s too timid. He can hardly speak to anyone.” Ranu sighed. “But Haroon should invest in Hasan! My husband is his own brother, and he has already given sixty thousand rupees to Anis, who is related to him only by marriage. My poor husband is so desolate, he can hardly get out of bed.
Bhabi
, please, please talk to Haroon!”

“Haroon is deeply concerned about his family. I’m sure I don’t need to remind him.”

“But he will listen to you. What you say carries weight. Oh
bhabi
, you have prestige in this house.”

“It’s not me. The prestige I suddenly have is because I’m with child, and the child to whom I give birth will carry on the family. My words don’t matter. You and I are in the same situation, exactly. We are powerless.”

“Then how can Dolon throw her weight around so recklessly?”

I shut my eyes. I was sleepy so much of the time now. Ranu came close and whispered. “Know why Dolon can’t visit her in-laws? She hit her mother-in-law! She threw a dish at her! She’s become a devil, if you ask me!”

I don’t know when Ranu left, but late that afternoon, Sebati woke me up. She examined my eyes to see if I was anemic, felt my pulse, checked my blood pressure, tapped my lungs, and declared I was one hundred percent fit.

“Afzal is preparing to leave,” she said.

“Really? When?”

“On the twenty-seventh of this month.” She looked pale, as if she wanted to talk about Afzal, but I wouldn’t let her.

“When are your exams?” I asked.

“Not for a while, but I’m working very hard. I never get to bed until almost dawn.”

“Is Afzal still bothering you?”

“He wouldn’t dare. He’s such a wimp!” Sebati really did look haggard, as if she hadn’t eaten for days. I wondered if she would have been so angry at Afzal if he had come to her rescue. And then she said, “At least he’s stopped painting
those female nudes!” I thought the paintings of me were safely hidden, but clearly Sebati didn’t see me in her brother-in-law’s studies of color and light.

“And what is he painting instead?”

“I don’t really know, but the other day I saw one of his paintings, the figure of a woman clad in a sari, standing with her back to us, her face out of view, a long staircase rising endlessly in front of her.”

I felt miserable listening to Sebati tell me the latest news about Afzal. I tried to recall his features, but I could not. I hadn’t seen him in weeks, since I hardly ever stood on the veranda anymore. Does he have a mustache? How long is his hair? It didn’t matter anymore. It wasn’t worth it to me what I’d suffer if I slept with him again. And really, what difference did it make to whom I was married? Haroon or Afzal, Karim, or Rashid? My situation wouldn’t be any different. A wife is like a buffalo circling a mill, her nose to the same grindstone, day in and day out. At least in loving Afzal without marriage, I had escaped that tyranny. Desire led me to him. In the end, I mortgaged my body to Afzal in order to purchase power.

When night fell, Haroon again lay beside me, rubbing his face on my stomach, inspecting my bosom to see if there were any more red marks. “You’re not allowed to eat hilsa fish, or else my child will break out in rashes,” he repeated. Every day now, he arranged for me to have chicken soup, four eggs and half a pint of milk. He wouldn’t let me refuse, insisting it was doctor’s orders. Now I ate first, finishing my meal before the men sat down. Haroon wanted to be sure I got the best.

I knew all the food was doing my figure no good. In my own eyes, I was gross, but nourishment was necessary for the healthy development of the child in my womb, and Haroon knew that. He had never before shown any interest in what I ate, but now he was like a mother hen. At night he fondled me with so much feeling, it continually took me by surprise. I had no idea he could be such a sensitive lover. I felt engulfed in the intensity of his emotion. “Tell me,” I asked one night. “Tell me, what do you want? A boy or a girl?”

“I’ll accept your gift with gratitude,” he said solemnly, holding me in his arms. “A boy or a girl. It does not matter.”

I was not convinced. I knew Haroon, like nearly every other man I knew, hoped for a boy. Who could ignore the advantages of being born male? As an oldest son, Haroon enjoyed unlimited freedom and opportunity, while Dolon lived under the limitations imposed on women—the limitations that still bound me. I had allowed this fetus to be conceived in a flash of anger. Yes, there was pleasure too, but not in the spirit of my girlhood dreams. I was not at peace. This child was a protest, a way of taking revenge, and its being was infused with the pain and suffering of all the women I knew.

H
aroon was missing work with alarming frequency. “Oh darling,” he would say, “I’ve taken the afternoon off. Shall we drive out into the country? To the river bank?” We went out at night; we dined at Aunt Sahedi’s. And we took long walks in the early evening. The doctor had advised plenty of activity, and exercise to keep my muscles toned. And of course I had to rest. Haroon made me lie down so he could press his ear against my belly and listen for the tiny heartbeat. He was thrilled when the baby began to move. He’d kiss my stomach and sing out to the creature within, “Oh, my little darling, it’s your daddy!” This made me laugh and laugh.

“Why are you so amused?” he asked me one day.

“Because you are such an eager father!”

Haroon had begun to count the months until the child’s arrival, and pretty soon he was computing weeks and days and even hours. He filled the house with baby clothes and bottles, stuffed animals and baby powders and creams.

“Tell me what you want, darling!” he would say impatiently. I told him I wanted to go home to see my parents,
but instead, he invited them over, setting Amma to prepare a feast, driving to Wari himself to pick them up. Of course I was happy when Mama and Baba and Nupur arrived and happy that Haroon insisted we have time alone together, but I was going mad sitting in the house all day. The pregnancy only emphasized the narrow limits of my life.

I wished I could have gone to them, but I was happy to see my family and embraced them all, breathing in my mother’s wonderful smell as I had when I was a little girl.

“Do I look like myself?” I asked as they stared at my belly.

“Of course you don’t,” Nupur said.

“But I never said I wouldn’t become pregnant!”

Nupur smiled weakly, and I could see that Mama was struggling to keep from weeping. My father just looked glum. I had left them a lithe young girl, and now I was grossly overweight even for a pregnant woman, out of breath at the slightest exertion. I had become a cartoon of the
bou
of the house. It was bad enough that marriage had taken me away from them, but they had not expected it would so deeply change me. One minute I was glad to see them, the next I was filled with rage.