Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel (41 page)
Read Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel Online
Authors: Samina Ali
We walked hand in hand, like mother and daughter, passing other graves, both old and fresh, small and large, the tombstones even with the land, and I whispered, “Salaam, salaam, salaam,” peace, onto each one I passed. After a short distance, my
kala
let go of my hand and we went on like that, with her before me, steady and firm, and me trailing behind. The path was so narrow, the graves coming just to the edge, that I was scared to stumble and fall, so I carefully placed my feet where hers had left an imprint.
kala
let go of my hand and we went on like that, with her before me, steady and firm, and me trailing behind. The path was so narrow, the graves coming just to the edge, that I was scared to stumble and fall, so I carefully placed my feet where hers had left an imprint.
When we came to the far side of the graveyard, I saw Hanif was already gone and the rest of the men made the excuse of returning their shovels and picks and left us alone. Abu Uncle squatted under the shade of a nearby tree, his black-and-white checkered shirt smudged brown with earth. Taqi Mamu walked off alone and smoked, and when he was done, he looked about confused before he slid the butt into a pocket.
Asma Kala crouched next to Henna’s grave and stared at it for some time. In a few days, she and Abu Uncle would have to return to
place the cement marker with Henna’s name and dates. But for now, my aunt simply passed her hand over the dirt, caressing her child through a mound of earth. Back and forth, back and forth, pebbles rolling away.
place the cement marker with Henna’s name and dates. But for now, my aunt simply passed her hand over the dirt, caressing her child through a mound of earth. Back and forth, back and forth, pebbles rolling away.
“Why did you have to be so insistent on going out?” she asked. Then she said, “We spoiled you too much.” After that, she was quiet, her eyes measuring the length and width of the grave, as though ensuring that Henna was comfortable inside, not too squeezed in with her daughter. Then her hand closed on the dirt and clenched it, bringing it up to her face. She kissed it. Then opened her mouth and shoved the dirt inside and swallowed it. Then shoved and swallowed some more. Behind us, Abu Uncle began to cry. I looked away.
Next to my aunt’s feet lay Nana’s grave, and I stared at it, silently informing him that this was what was left of his hopes for the future. Just these three empty lives, my two uncles and aunt, then Ameera Auntie, Amme and me, three more. And I, the sole heir of their collective sorrow. I, their only hope. Then my eyes fell upon a miniature grave to the left of Nana’s, just between him and Henna. It was a mere foot long, and above it, a small slab of cement. On it, swirls to the left. ABBAS. My brother. Amme’s lost son. No dates inscribed for one who had died before living an age long enough to record. Dying at birth. Slipping from the nurse’s clumsy hands and falling. Smacking his too soft newborn head on the stone floor. And the cry for life became a startled hiccup and nothing more. For three days he bled from the nose, mouth and ears. He bled the same blood that flowed through me now. Accident or kismet? A child born only to die, and now he had found a playmate.
My legs buckled and I slouched next to Asma Kala, finally crying, finally touching sorrow.
WE WENT TO the shrine that Henna had visited the day she was murdered, when she had brought her flowers and prayers of thanksgiving for her husband’s safe return, her family’s long-awaited reunion. Allah
rewarded patience, that was what was promised in the Qur’an, over and over, so though I had intended to go in and pray for her, I found I could not. I stayed outside the small one-room structure, listening to the family pray for peace—peace within themselves, peace without—and I told God that I disagreed with life. Like that, bit by bit, just as I had been bound by this existence, I was now breaking away. It was not enough anymore, blind faith.
rewarded patience, that was what was promised in the Qur’an, over and over, so though I had intended to go in and pray for her, I found I could not. I stayed outside the small one-room structure, listening to the family pray for peace—peace within themselves, peace without—and I told God that I disagreed with life. Like that, bit by bit, just as I had been bound by this existence, I was now breaking away. It was not enough anymore, blind faith.
Sameer found me awaiting my family in Abu Uncle’s car, just outside the
durga.
He pulled up beside the passenger door. his gaze faltering, ashamed. He didn’t get off the bike. We rode home without a word, lost to those we passed and to each other.
durga.
He pulled up beside the passenger door. his gaze faltering, ashamed. He didn’t get off the bike. We rode home without a word, lost to those we passed and to each other.
When we were upon the crossroads, he suddenly yelled, “There’s the jail-
khanna,”
pointing it out as though I’d not seen it a hundred times in a hundred different passings. It was no more than a square block, the faded cement boundary wall painted over brightly by this season’s slogans. Passionate words that would be painted over themselves with the lusty faces of next season’s film stars. And still Henna would not be returned.
khanna,”
pointing it out as though I’d not seen it a hundred times in a hundred different passings. It was no more than a square block, the faded cement boundary wall painted over brightly by this season’s slogans. Passionate words that would be painted over themselves with the lusty faces of next season’s film stars. And still Henna would not be returned.
Sameer stuck out an arm and the cycle swerved. “Wave to Hanif. Wave!” he cried, trying to sound sarcastic or untouched, but I could hear the pain in his voice.
A car jerked around us, and the front passenger thrust out his head and cursed Sameer. He was wearing a shiny orange shirt so I knew he was Hindu, just as he could tell from our black clothes, my chador, that we were Muslim. Sameer stuck his pinkie in his mouth and smacked it back out, a gesture of insult I did not know how to translate. We tailed the car around the curve of the
chow-rasta,
and just as I was growing nervous Sameer might lead us to danger, the car took the first right and zipped away. The struggle so quickly forgotten.
chow-rasta,
and just as I was growing nervous Sameer might lead us to danger, the car took the first right and zipped away. The struggle so quickly forgotten.
We continued straight until we reached the top of the hill that would drop us down into the colony. There, he pulled to the side and stopped. He didn’t show me the tree under which he had taken cover, nor did I ask him to point it out. We sat in the last bright rays of the dying sun. Ahead, rambling down the slope were a few goats, a vegetable
seller grasping his cart as it rolled ever more quickly before him, a
tho-bun
with a dirty laundry bundle on top of her head, her hips swaying side to side. At this time of day, on the ninth of Ganesh, there should have been more of a crowd, cheering and celebration. This was some sort of self-imposed curfew, news of Henna’s death, as all such deaths, reaching the entire neighborhood. What was it that kept people away, the guilt that they could have prevented it? Or the fear that her ghost was lingering about, ready to enter any body that passed?
seller grasping his cart as it rolled ever more quickly before him, a
tho-bun
with a dirty laundry bundle on top of her head, her hips swaying side to side. At this time of day, on the ninth of Ganesh, there should have been more of a crowd, cheering and celebration. This was some sort of self-imposed curfew, news of Henna’s death, as all such deaths, reaching the entire neighborhood. What was it that kept people away, the guilt that they could have prevented it? Or the fear that her ghost was lingering about, ready to enter any body that passed?
“Enter me,” I whispered as Sameer whisked down the hill. I raised my arms over my head and closed my eyes, telling myself the air against my skin was really the pressure of Henna’s ghost pushing inside. But even as I did, I knew it wasn’t so. The borders of skin were as firm as the borders on any map.
Halfway down, Sameer switched off the engine and we coasted the rest of the way. I could now hear drums beating around us, and as we passed a dirt road, I saw a lorry carrying an enormous Ganesh. Four or five men in festive colored shirts sat in the back with their god. They were clapping and singing to him. We rolled on.
“Where did she die?”
He turned an ear to me. “Could have been anywhere along this stretch. I was too far to know.” Whether or not he said that to protect me, I could not tell, and I began to examine the road, searching for signs of blood, of a torn sari or chador, of dried milk. I found nothing. Then I became so frightened that I would find something that I closed my eyes and pretended to be her.
It is dark and she is gliding. Her one arm wrapped around her husband’s waist, the other resting on her stomach, on her baby. They are moving so quickly that hot air rises from under the wheels and she has the sensation, over and over, of her sandals flying off. So she curves her toes down to keep them in place. Ahead, there is darkness. Then figures emerging from it, coming into form in the frail light of the scooter. One, two, three, four. She sees only four. A group of friends. Just boys out having fun. Nothing to worry about, not anymore. Her husband has returned. She is having his baby. Together, they will create a future.
Then the first strike of the rifle’s handle against her shin. At first, she is confused. Perhaps a stick on the road, a stick they have run over has flipped in the air and struck her. But then she feels it again, now against her shoulder, now her back, her neck, her crotch. She instinctively covers her belly. The bike is swerving. They fall. She falls. He rises and leaves. She watches him go. The men’s motorcycle lights are pointing at her, they have encircled her and beyond that, all is darkness.
Then the first strike of the rifle’s handle against her shin. At first, she is confused. Perhaps a stick on the road, a stick they have run over has flipped in the air and struck her. But then she feels it again, now against her shoulder, now her back, her neck, her crotch. She instinctively covers her belly. The bike is swerving. They fall. She falls. He rises and leaves. She watches him go. The men’s motorcycle lights are pointing at her, they have encircled her and beyond that, all is darkness.
No, I would change it, as I was going to change so much else. Bring the invisible to life.
It is dark and she is gliding. She can hear the breeze shaking the trees around her, but she cannot see the branches. Every now and then a crow calls. Ahead there is no one, not even her husband. She is riding alone. The engine hums between her thighs, reverberates against her skin. Inside her, life trembles and sprouts. Outside, the wind blows through her chador, billowing it out and back, giving her wings. A nighttime angel. She soars, the small motorcycle light illuminating just the road before her, two feet, three feet, four feet, that is all. All else is hidden, but she is not afraid, not any longer. Though she cannot see it, she knows what is ahead. She trusts this road. She has faith it will take her home.
I DID NOT lock the bedroom door or the window shutters. There was no need. No one was at home. The family had gone to the Old City, to the evening gatherings, and afterward would attend the silent candlelight procession that would take them through the night and into the dawn of the tenth day, the pitch of grief.
He was sitting on the bed, face collapsed in his hands. I took the velvet stool across from him. The drumming tonight, the singing, the clapping, the celebrations, not for us.
“As your wife, I have the right to make demands of you,” I said. “I demand that you make love to me.”
He looked up at me, his eyes red, his face darkened from three
days’ growth. He had stopped shaving not for our saints, not for any convictions but the one he now held: he was a coward for staying hidden.
days’ growth. He had stopped shaving not for our saints, not for any convictions but the one he now held: he was a coward for staying hidden.
I stood and pulled off my chador, then my kurta, my loose
shalwar.
He watched me, saying nothing, though I could see the words in his eyes: he would communicate love today, in its true guise, without limits.
shalwar.
He watched me, saying nothing, though I could see the words in his eyes: he would communicate love today, in its true guise, without limits.
I challenged him. “If I am to stay here with you, if you are going to remain my husband, then you must provide.”
He raised his chin, lips curled up in some defiance, before he stood himself and undressed. We stood naked in the glare of the overhead light, neither moving toward the other.
He said, “I was coming home from Naveed’s house that night your sister died. I didn’t sleep with him. I just let him talk.”
I stepped past him and onto the bed, leaving the netting door parted. He climbed in and we sat on our knees, facing each other, still not touching.
He passed a hand over his forehead to massage the lines. “I thought that once I got married I wouldn’t want to see him again.” He swallowed before saying, “I swear, Layla, I never intended to hurt you.”
“Put up your palm,” I said, and when he gazed at me, confused, I took his hand from his forehead and raised it before me, then flattened my palm against his. “Whenever Henna and I were together and one of us was sad, we would set our hands together like this. I love her, Sameer, I’ll always love her, how am I going to live without her …”
He clasped my face and lifted it up to him, finally gazing into my eyes, finally seeing me. “When Naveed revealed everything, I was so frightened … and yet so liberated. I should have let you go then, but when I got back to Hyderabad and saw my dad’s face … all his concerns were about
you
—where were you, what had I done wrong, how had I failed you? And I couldn’t do it, Layla, I couldn’t tell him. It was easier to go back to the way it was, easier to erase it all. But now,” he shook his head. “I could hide from everyone else, Layla, even from you
who saw me—you saw me for who I am, in Madras, here, but I still couldn’t look at myself, not until …” he stopped and licked his lips. “I didn’t show myself, Layla. I could have, but I chose not to.”
you
—where were you, what had I done wrong, how had I failed you? And I couldn’t do it, Layla, I couldn’t tell him. It was easier to go back to the way it was, easier to erase it all. But now,” he shook his head. “I could hide from everyone else, Layla, even from you
who saw me—you saw me for who I am, in Madras, here, but I still couldn’t look at myself, not until …” he stopped and licked his lips. “I didn’t show myself, Layla. I could have, but I chose not to.”
“You are not corrupt, Sameer, don’t let them convince you of that. You are as stuck as I …”
“I want you to go … you are free to go. In your chador, you are invisible.” He took his hands from my face and set them in his lap, staring at them a long time. Then he slowly withdrew the silver toe ring from his thumb and held it up between us.
“What about you? How will you make it here?”
He smiled and, for a moment, the tip of his tongue pushed through his front teeth. “This is what I can provide you, I ayla. This is what your husband can provide. You mustn’t ask me anything more.”
I pushed back onto the bed and set my leg in his lap. He lifted my foot to his lips and kissed it, then pressed his forehead against it, eyes squeezed shut, hands trembling. Outside, drums were pounding, people clapping and singing. Finally, he stretched the silver apart, and, just as the women had done two days before our wedding, dressing me to be his bride, he slid it on my toe and cinched it tight.
THAT LAST NIGHT together, we slept pressed into each other at the center of the bed, legs entwined, arms wrapped around each other, in a way not even Nate and I had lain. By the time dawn azan rang through the skies, waking me up, he was gone.
I took his pillow and folded it over my ears, muffling all noise but that of my own slow breathing. I could smell the sour scent of his skin. Finally I rose and bathed. In the handbag, I found our completed immigration papers, wrinkled and torn along one edge from where his fingers had pinched them, confronting Naveed, confronting himself. What had he told me on the train to Madras, that he wanted nothing more than to escape lies, roles he could never live up to, his demon, not Naveed, not even himself, but the ghost they had made him into, here.
I opened his trunk and placed the papers on top, smoothing them flat on his jeans and button-downs, all his Western clothes. His dreams of making himself into something, if only himself. Then I unlocked the
almari
and found the bundle of money Amme had given me. Half had gone to Zakir’s daughter, Sadia, and now I halved it again, winding the rubber bands around each, and set one alongside the immigration papers. Then I closed the trunk. If he wanted, he could still go to the U.S. It was the last thing I would provide him.
almari
and found the bundle of money Amme had given me. Half had gone to Zakir’s daughter, Sadia, and now I halved it again, winding the rubber bands around each, and set one alongside the immigration papers. Then I closed the trunk. If he wanted, he could still go to the U.S. It was the last thing I would provide him.
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