Revenge Page 6

  6

  Haroon took me to the Dhanmundi clinic for the abortion. We’d told the family nothing and they thought we were out visiting friends. I had tried hard to talk to Haroon. “Look, it’s our first baby, we can’t do this . . . how can you be so wrong about your own flesh and blood? You’re making a terrible mistake and you are humiliating me with these suspicions.” I pleaded with him, reaching for his hands, but he jerked away, threw me off, pushed me toward the closet where my clothes were and told me to dress fast. I cried and cried, hanging onto the closet door. But Haroon pulled at me and said, “Change into fresh clothes, quick now!” I grabbed one of his hands and placed it on my belly. “This is your baby. You are killing your own child.”

  “I want to.” Haroon’s voice was harsh.

  “But the baby is mine too. Have I no say in the matter? I won’t go—I won’t have it ripped from me,” I cried out. But I knew I had no choice. I was, as Haroon said, his wife, and therefore contracted to do whatever he told me to do, no matter how cruel. I was at his feet begging, weeping. But he shrugged me off. “Stop making an exhibition of yourself!”

  His choice of words did not surprise me. I had no doubt now that Haroon was unreachable. I finally dressed and followed him quietly, wiping my tears.

  “Why do you want to abort?” the doctor asked before I was taken into the operating room. Why indeed? I looked to Haroon.

  “It’s highly inconvenient for us to have a child now.”

  “What’s the problem?” the doctor asked. I could tell he believed that no man in his right mind would want to abort his wife’s first pregnancy.

  “We have no choice.” Haroon said. He packed all his emotion into those few words. The doctor sighed.

  “She’s your wife?”

  “Of course she’s my wife,” Haroon sputtered.

  “Then why,” the doctor continued, “do you want to abort the pregnancy?”

  I was afraid Haroon would tell the doctor he wasn’t the baby’s father, but instead he smiled enigmatically.

  It was as if I was shrouded in a fog of silence. All feeling in my sinews was suspended, my body like mist beneath skin and bones, as if I no longer existed but had escaped from the prison of the physical to some obscure realm beyond human reach.

  I was not put under general anesthesia, and so I watched as the doctor scooped from my insides the gore which would in time have given way to my child’s shape. The local anesthetic numbed me and I stared, dazed, at the spilling of the clotted blood, the vital fluid. If someone had found his way into my heart just then, he would have discovered a sticky lump of blood there too, but I could hear the doctor declaring the operation a success. “The womb has been thoroughly cleaned out. There is nothing left.”

  Haroon smiled, paid the doctor, and came to me. He sat next to me in the recovery room as I dozed. A couple of hours later, he drove me home. He announced to everybody that I had been ill, that I must be given hot milk, plenty of fluid. Members of the family took turns sitting next to my bed, giving me medicine or tea, even though Haroon assured them my illness was not serious, that I’d be well “in a matter of days.” In the morning he kissed me lightly on the lips before he left for the office.

  I hadn’t been cared for this way for a long time, and, with relief, I came to the conclusion that Haroon was, in his own way, fond of me. Even so, I couldn’t reconcile this new knowledge with what I had come to recognize as his deep mistrust of me. I couldn’t fathom that he could imagine I would deceive him, pass off his child as someone else’s! And if I was actually the cunning slut he imagined, why hadn’t he turned me out of the house or dumped me onto the street with society’s refuse? Then I remembered my mother once explaining to me how a man’s desire differs from a woman’s. “No matter how much you are loved,” she said, “you are his possession, his territory.” At the time I dismissed her as old-fashioned, but now her words returned and strangely, they comforted me. Suddenly it made sense that Haroon was giving me medicine rather than showing me the door. As the pain lessened, I saw the trouble he’d gone to—all the bottles of medicine arranged neatly in a row on my bedside table—and heard the concern in his voice as he reminded me over and over that I was not to miss a dose. I watched him closely. He was not smiling that mysterious smile anymore, though I saw traces on his face of the self-satisfied look he got when he talked about letting go a laborer at his factory whom he had caught in the act of secretly disposing of machine parts.

  The family took my illness as being related to my stomach. Looking sad, Dolon remarked, “It’s not good, bhabi, to be ill so much! Husbands get fed up.” My sweet, innocent sister-in-law Dolon, pure as air, always laughing! She could say what she wanted, but if she did not take care of me, Haroon would get angry. And if I did not recover or if Ranu got sick, she and Amma would be without a bou and stuck with all the housework. Amma never stopped grumbling if Rosuni got sick—and Rosuni was forever panicked that she would displease her mistress and lose her job. Temporarily, I was free of those worries. Dolon could not push me to get up and get busy. My misery was a kind of triumph: there was not a single person in the household who could now punish me, hassle me or do away with me.

  Little Ranu came to visit me. Sitting at my feet, she sighed. She suffered herself from abdominal pains, but did anyone rush to her bedside? And Rosuni! Sitting hour after hour on the cold floor, she declared that to get well, I need only brush a plantain leaf against my belly then destroy it by fire. I did my best to smile at the poignancy of her good intentions.

  7

  Even though the house where we lived belonged to Haroon, I thought of it as Amma and Abba’s house. After all, they seemed to run things. “Your house,” I would say to Amma. Haroon had no objection and Amma was only too pleased to crown herself with ownership. At the least provocation, she would go on about the authority her husband had once commanded.

  It was Ranu who set me straight, “Whatever clout he had was in Noakhali where he was a clerk,” she said.

  “But Amma said he was a big officer!” Ranu made a face.

  “A minister in the government is what she’ll say next!”

  Dolon came and stretched out by my side. She was full of talk about her daughter Somaiya, about how Amma and Abba wouldn’t let go of her “for a second.” They were mad about her, lost sleep if she spent even a day away. Dolon said she and Somaiya were living here because she was needed here, she said, to teach me, the new bou, how to run the household. “For the good of our family, I have left my heart behind,” she sighed, but the minute she left the room, Ranu again set the story straight.

  “That’s all nonsense, her in-laws have turned her out of the house. Go there and see for yourself!”

  How Ranu could gather so much information when she sat in a corner all day crocheting was beyond me. How she was able to discern everyone’s hidden motives when she seemed to be paying no attention amazed me, but I certainly had no desire to become another Ranu. It’s true that I had once wanted to get away from it all, but I began to see how much Haroon flourished in the heart of his family. I now understood that he would never choose a less traditional existence. And I could hardly believe it, but I could feel our love returning! And I accepted it despite what Haroon had made me do. It was better to live with love in the wilderness, I told myself, than to be lonely in paradise.

  I was becoming well again, basking in my husband’s love.

  No one in the house knew that a child, our child, had been aborted, that our child had been taken from me in utmost secrecy. I still wept, but only to myself. Even Haroon, so close to me when we slept, was unaware. He’d started making love to me four days after the abortion, ignoring medical advice. I did not discourage him. How could I, still half believing myself a wanton woman? My husband had purified me, he believed, rid my womb of contamination. Chaste as a sacred virgin, I rose from the white sheets of our bed and walked feebly about the marital bedroom. I was a creature who sat in a kitchen that reeked of garlic, a
nd, with Rosuni, cooked for her husband and her husband’s family. A perfect bou, I prepared dishes to suit each of them, and, retiring at night, cloaked in wifely chastity, brought waves of pleasure to the husband who joined me between the sheets.

  The doctor had advised that I take birth control pills for three months, so that my womb could heal from the abortion. Not knowing the truth, Dolon was appalled. “Why do that at your age!” When I invented an explanation, she would not listen.

  “So you don’t want a child?”

  “Not quite yet,” I said. I couldn’t tell her that I was still in mourning for my lost child.

  “But some women have three or four children at your age.”

  I went silent.

  “Does Haroon know what you’re doing?”

  “He does.”

  “I’m surprised,” Dolon said, pulling little Somaiya onto her lap. “Haroon loves children! In my hospital room, right after this one was born, he held her and made such a fuss that the doctors and nurses thought he and not Anis was the child’s father.” It did not surprise me that in no time, Dolon had told Amma I was taking the pill. Thereafter my mother-in-law spared no opportunity to remark that it was high time there was a baby in the house.

  “I do not wish to die without a glimpse of my grandson!”

  When his mother talked like this, Haroon listened quietly and smiled at me, and I would try to smile back.

  But in spite of our returning love, I was haunted. In my dreams, a bloody knot of flesh leapt toward me as if to envelop me—not with shame but with red, vital fluid. In the days after the abortion, when Haroon sat by my side, I’d bled profusely. I wanted to go to Wari, I told him, to be with my parents. No, he said firmly. I wasn’t going anywhere without the permission of the family. I belonged to them, to him, and they knew what was good for me. In my weakness, I understood with finality, that my future lay with Haroon and his kin and not in Wari. I was no longer a daughter but a daughter-in-law.

  I found this turnabout in family relationships bewildering, although nearly every woman I knew, including my mother, had experienced it. I was mystified at the swiftness with which my near and dear had become distant, and those whom I hadn’t known six months earlier were said to be the people closest to me. Marriage brought these changes, but did it also recast the mind, alter one’s emotions? I was beginning to accept Haroon’s family as mine, but I had not been able to erase memories of Wari. I longed for my mother, my father, and Nupur. By chance, one day soon after the abortion, Ma came to visit, bringing coconut pastries, mango chutney, and a luscious bunch of grapes. Amma sent Rosuni to serve her tea in the living room, and Dolon to entertain her. As I sat silent, Dolon chattered on about Somaiya—how the child liked to play, what she liked to eat, when she fell asleep, what time she got up, and what her favorite television programs were. Then Dolon had Somaiya recite a poem, and then another.

  And so time passed, and I had no chance to embrace my mother or tell her about myself. How I wanted to confide in her! Especially about the abortion. But my dear Ma went away knowing nothing of my sadness, assuming my weakness was because I had a fever.

  After she left, I stood at the living room window, which faced the backs of the houses on the street behind us. There was no garden there, just a few betel nut trees. Everyone had retired for an afternoon nap, and Rosuni was resting in the kitchen. But there, sitting on the balcony, was Dolon’s husband Anis, the member of the household whom I knew least. I started to leave, but he stopped me. “Bhabi,” he said, addressing me with a family endearment, “Bhabi, sit down.”

  I remained standing. “Are Dolon and Somaiya asleep?” I asked. I knew they were, but asking him the question was something to say. I had little to talk about with him, but I didn’t want to be rude. If I said nothing or simply turned and left, he would regard it as an affront and, as the husband of Haroon’s sister, he was an important member of the family. Amma, Abba, and even Haroon were constantly worried about Anis. The proper thing to do was to ask him about his business prospects.

  “How’s it going? Have you gotten the job you were promised by the Koreans?”

  “That’s gone bust—there’s no job. But now I’m waiting for something to come up in Chittagong, thanks to your husband.”

  Anis was eager to find out when Haroon might give him an investment that would enable him to take a stake in a company. I hesitated to reply since I had no idea of Haroon’s intentions, but I certainly didn’t want Anis to know that Haroon never talked to me about business. I didn’t like the idea that Anis, who was quite clever, would begin to have ideas about my marriage, so I remained silent, hoping he would assume Haroon took him seriously.

  “Why do you look so abstracted all the time Jhumar bhabi?” His question jolted me into the present. No one in the house ever used my name; everyone called me just bhabi. Hearing my actual name gave me such a thrill! I have a name! I am a person! By calling me Jhumar bhabi, Anis brought me back to the woman I had been before my marriage—a university educated person with two degrees. I turned to look at him. Anis was tall, fair, and strongly built. The fine stubble on his round face suited him. I watched him run his hand down his bare chest, dense with black hair.

  Now he was asking me why I wasn’t looking for a job. “What’s the use of a university degree if all you do is stay at home and cook?” A thin smile curled at the corners of his mouth, like the crescent moon that marks the end of Ramadan. Was he suggesting that if one cooked, one didn’t read? Was he reminding me that Haroon had chosen me for my accomplishments? There was no doubt that a girl with a university degree had an advantage. Rosuni was an excellent cook, but Haroon would not have married her. My brother-in-law’s question hit me like a torpedo. I could not answer him. I was surprised to hear my own sigh.

  “Have you ever visited Cox’s Bazaar?” He was talking about a resort near Chittagong, where the beach was known to be the longest natural stretch of white sand in the world.

  “No,” I said.

  “Go there, the two of you! The sight of the sea will make you both happy.”

  “What makes you think I’m not happy?”

  “I can see you are not happy.”

  “I am quite happy.”

  “You are depressed, Jhumar bhabi.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’ve observed you closely, you know.”

  I felt a wave of shame. I thought I had hidden my pain. “You can go to the movies! Or to a concert! Why don’t you go and spend a few days at Wari with your parents?” I laughed because laughing was the only way I could conceal my discomfort. Suddenly, I didn’t care if I offended Anis, and I turned to leave. He didn’t try to stop me.

  I was amazed that Anis had seen my unhappiness, the drabness of my existence. The child would have filled my life with so many dreams! I had no dreams now; I was nothing but a two-legged creature living on earth to keep Haroon sexually satisfied. Anis had seen through to the heart.

  I couldn’t keep myself from anger. As time went on, Haroon would unwrap my sari to make love to me and exclaim, “We want a baby, don’t we?” I would say to myself, “Yes, we do now, but we didn’t then.” I was still incredulous that Haroon had insisted, without any expert advice, that a woman could not become pregnant in six weeks. If I had reasoned with him that even one night of lovemaking could make a woman pregnant, could I have won the argument? But I hadn’t even tried. Now he was eagerly awaiting the advent of “our child.” He was so obsessed with the idea that he woke me several times a night to make love, somnolent bouts that were not about pleasure but which had the sole purpose of impregnating me.

  In the days after the abortion, I had been so relieved that Haroon seemed to love me despite his suspicions that I opened myself to him, and when he turned to me after he was satisfied and asked about me, I wanted to seem the contented, eager wife. But my body was unresponsive; I couldn’t give Haroon my love, and, in spite of myself, I began to hate him.

  That night I asked him ab
out investing in Anis’s business. “That is a complicated affair. You would not understand!”

  “Why not? Anis has told me about the business in Chittagong. You have taken the rest of your family into your confidence. Why can’t you tell me? As your wife, shouldn’t I be the first person to know?”

  “What good would it do for you to know?”

  “Do you think me so stupid that I wouldn’t understand?”

  “Who says you are stupid?” Haroon’s eyes were glittering. “You are clever as a fox—or else you wouldn’t have landed me in such a spot!”

  “What have I done?”

  “You rushed me into marrying you.”

  “You had no desire to marry me?”

  “Of course I had. But not so soon.”

  “I was in love with you—I wanted to be with you!”

  “Come on! Don’t try to outwit me!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Haroon calmed down. “The truth of the matter is that I love you and you only and I don’t believe any man in the world would do for you what I do for you, but please, I beg of you, don’t try to deceive me anymore.”

  And that’s how it was. I wasn’t allowed to go to see my parents lest I deceive Haroon. I was not allowed to step outside the house lest I deceive Haroon. His jealousy had built a cage around me, chalked out my limited existence. His jealousy was so deep he had destroyed his own child, but convinced himself he still loved me despite my “deceit.”

  Anis’s suggestion that we take a few days at the sea had been excruciating. How could I enjoy the world when I saw it only from the corner of a balcony or through a car window? How could I, who was no longer allowed a glimpse of the open sky, remain truly alive?

  8

  A young couple rented the ground floor of our house, and the wife, who was a gynecologist, now often came to see me. I hadn’t told her about the abortion, but she could tell I was not feeling well and brought me all kinds of remedies. As time went on, Sebati and I became friends and talked of many things, though, as good faithful wives, never about our personal lives. She and her husband, Anwar, who ran a nonprofit organization, had recently traveled to Sunderbans, to the tiger reserve there. Tigers are solitary animals, Sebati told me. A tiger moves alone rather than with a family as lions do. The female tiger and her mate come together during the mating season, but move apart when she produces a cub, otherwise there is danger the male may devour his child. Sebati could not know how sorry I felt for the tigress, how intimately I understood her loneliness.