Revenge

Table of Contents

 

 

 

The original Bangla title of this book,
Shodh
—an elegant-looking word when transliterated into Roman script—hovers in English meaning, I am told, somewhere between the word “revenge” and the idiom “getting even.” I like that balance, and working my way through a basic English translation of Taslima Nasrin’s novel, I sought to render an equivalent one between the heroine’s suffering and the author’s witty feminist commentary on the cruelty of her character’s situation. In doing so, I came to understand
Revenge
as a fable—that is, a cautionary tale in which the reader’s sense of what is “natural” is challenged.

Take one of the most familiar of Aesop’s fables: A tortoise challenges a hare to a race, and the hare accepts, assuming, as we do, that he will beat the tortoise, a creature slow by nature. The impartial fox sets the distance, and the two set off. The tortoise never stops, but the confident hare soon tires and stops by the side of the road to take a nap. He wakes to find that the tortoise has passed the finish line. Slow and steady wins the race, as the saying goes.

Like a fable, the tale you are about to read is a metaphorical narrative, and offers a warning. So as not to give the end away, I won’t say what the warning is, but as you enter this story, remember that there are still places in the world where a woman with a physics degree is asked to use it only to boil water, and that even in the West, there are marriages in which a husband’s jealousy creates a wife’s reality. It is the brilliance of Taslima Nasrin’s narrative that the constrictions of sexism she realistically depicts strain credulity as fiercely as the obstacles in any fable. Like Aesop’s tortoise, or, if you prefer, like a Jane Austen heroine, Nasrin’s Jhumur employs wit and simple logic to get even, and in so doing changes her life and earns a place in the great tradition of clever fictional women.

—Honor Moore
June 2010

I
t’s dawn and again my stomach is turning, an alien taste spiraling up through me until I feel it on my tongue, a sour dribble flooding my mouth. I make an effort to hold it down, but it keeps rising as if to taunt me. I run to the bathroom, squat at the toilet, and vomit. All day everything sways as I read, cook, or simply stand, hardly able to remember who or where I am. And then I sit or lie down. That’s how it’s been now, for four days.

Haroon of course hasn’t noticed. Even this morning when I approached, a smile curving at the corners of my mouth, and told him I had symptoms of what is surely morning sickness, his eyes remained riveted to the mirror, his fingers busy knotting his tie. I had imagined he would sweep me into his arms and kiss me, or dance me across our bedroom wild with joy, as I had once seen an exultant Dipu whirl Shipra around a dance floor, as if they wished to live a thousand years. When Dipu released her from his arms, Shipra took me aside. She had morning sickness and her beloved husband was in such a state of happiness he’d missed work and they’d spent the whole day alone, celebrating. A
husband and wife falling all over each other with happiness! How charming!

But my beloved Haroon kept fussing at his tie. I wondered if he was so inept at achieving a Windsor knot that he couldn’t hear what I was telling him, couldn’t see my face, my open staring eyes. Nothing I could do broke his concentration. I watched as he inventoried the lunch in his tiffin box for hard-boiled egg, bread and apple, then slid it into his briefcase. And then I watched as he put on his shoes. I’d never seen him so rapt! Not waiting for him to finish, I repeated my happy news, but he neither looked at me nor responded. When he hesitated at the door, I had a flash of hope. Maybe he’ll turn and tell me to get dressed for a day on the town, call his office to say he won’t be in. “This, my darling, is no ordinary day,” I imagined him saying, taking me in his arms. And then we’d broadcast the news to his family and spend the day imagining what to name our first child. Why shouldn’t my husband be like Shipra’s?

Haroon did none of these things. Once he’d tied his shoes, he picked up his briefcase, and headed to the door. The little smile was gone from the corners of my lips. It wasn’t normal for a woman to vomit so early in the morning. I raised my voice so he’d be sure to hear. “Can’t you see what’s happening to me?” But Haroon kept his eyes on the door, as he answered, “There are some Pepto-Bismol tablets in the cupboard, take them!” I could barely hear him for the image of Dipu and Shipra dancing before my eyes.

“What did you say?” I wanted to be sure Haroon actually understood that I had morning sickness, that he didn’t think I was simply down with stomach flu. I wanted to give him a
chance to revise his cruel response, to clear his mind, so that he would know what lay in our future, so that he would offer me something other than a pill.

 

 

But instead, he slipped through the door, leaving it slightly ajar so I could see him as he walked down the stairs and disappeared. I picked up after him and then set about finishing the kitchen chores just like an ordinary woman. I had been warned never to call after my husband when his back was turned, that doing so was inauspicious, and so I followed tradition, reining in my impulse to shout after him, holding my tongue so as not to bring him harm.

There was, as always, plenty of work: preparing breakfast for everyone, baking the roti that Rosuni, the maid, had rolled out. She was an especially skilled cook, but the family preferred to have me actually produce the meal—another tradition established to prove the worth of a daughter-in-law. And so, even though Rosuni was perfectly capable of it, I chose whether we ate fried eggs or vegetables with our rotis, and thus, everyone was happy, which made Haroon happy. For the six weeks we’d been married, I’d gratified him by preparing meals three times a day, doing all the washing, and taking care of the house, not once allowing the scarf to slip from my head.

But this morning, I fled the kitchen for my bedroom, shutting the door behind me, lay on the bed, arms and legs spread, knowing full well that I ought not to be flouting my duties. But what was I to do? Rosuni was kneading the dough, but I could not stop the churning in my stomach, the
rising force in my belly, and the moaning that came whether I wanted it or not.

As I lay there, the beatific expression on Shipra’s happy face sailed across my vision, waves of envy breaking on a tiny beach at the back of my consciousness. What was it that had brought Dipu’s arms to embrace her, while my news had produced nothing but a pinched look on Haroon’s face and the stingy offer of a pill or two? Was my dear Shipra more intelligent than I was, more skillful in the mysteries of love? Even my sworn enemy would agree that I was not one but two notches above my beloved best friend in beauty and talent. Shipra had dropped out of university after a year to marry Dipu. Acquiring pots and pans and every piece of necessary furniture with the perseverance of an ant, she made a home in no time. I too had married for love! And I, too, was living every day and hour in compliance with my husband’s wishes, neglecting none of my wifely obligations either in the bed or at the stove! So why, I moaned, why does Shipra get such ebullient love? I couldn’t fathom the reason and I couldn’t keep myself from weeping.

When Shipra was ready to deliver, Dipu took her to a clinic in Gulshan, despite the fact that his family had wanted him to take her to a government hospital to avoid “unnecessary expenditure.” But Dipu was no fool. He knew that proper medical care was not always forthcoming in government hospitals, that one might wait indefinitely for a free bed, that a patient might even find herself giving birth on the floor. Nothing was too good for his Shipra or their child. Dipu did not have the money himself, but he did not hesitate to borrow from his friends.

When I visited Shipra at the clinic before she gave birth, Dipu was always there—fussing over her medication and diet, pouring her fruit juice when she was thirsty. I could barely get close to her! If Dipu wasn’t ruffling her hair, he was rubbing his nose against her belly, mumbling endearments: “How is my little one doing in there?” Doctors raised their eyebrows and a nurse, winking, remarked that in her experience fathers were apt to panic rather than purr at the birth of a first child. How I envied my friend, even secretly wishing Shipra and I could change places. If only I were the mother soon to give birth, the woman whose husband was lavishing all this attention!

Again, my stomach churned and again I rushed to the toilet to vomit. No one—not Haroon, nor his Ma, not his brothers or their wives and sisters—no one was willing to acknowledge something was happening to me! That this was the fourth day I’d woken up retching, that my world was lurching, and that, in all likelihood I was pregnant. I pulled myself up from my knees and opened the bathroom door, and there was Rosuni.

I guessed why she was there. It was time for breakfast, and soon the family would want a breakfast cooked by the
bou
, me, the lovely daughter-in-law. But the rotis were not ready, and I was not going to the kitchen that day. Rosuni was the first in the house to notice that something was wrong. She would make the rotis, she said, fry the eggs, and serve everyone exactly as I would. I smiled my thanks and, with relief, threw myself again onto the bed. Soon the sun was blazing through the curtains, scalding my skin, but I didn’t care how hot it was, just as long as I could see the sky. So many days,
sitting at that window after hours of housework, I’d gazed upward at the azure strip of sky, wishing I were a bird taking flight. If I were robbed of that image of freedom, I thought to myself, I’d be left with nothing.

Some evenings, as a night breeze swept the balcony outside our room, I’d stand longing for a glimpse of the streets crowded with people and moving vehicles, but tall buildings blocked the view, and I could never see beyond the narrow strip of garden. Once in Ranu and Hasan’s room, which has a view of the street, I was standing looking out the window when Amma, my mother-in-law walked in, “It doesn’t become a housewife to stare at people,” she said sternly. “Step back Jhumar, or the neighbors will talk.” Of course she reported the incident to Haroon, who quickly sided with her. “You have no sense at all. You forget you are the daughter-in-law, the
bou
of this house.”

 

 

My dear husband couldn’t have been more wrong! I knew I was the
bou
of the house only too well. I didn’t dare think otherwise even for a second. I knew that the moment I entered the house I had to reduce my voice to a murmur and keep my eyes lowered, fixed to the ground, so I wouldn’t meet the eyes of any other person. How else could I succeed at being Haroon’s perfect, self-effacing wife! I’d learned the requirements the day of my marriage when I’d laughed out loud at Haroon’s younger brother, Habib, prancing about the house with a cap on his head, and Haroon had come running. “What on earth are you up to? Why are you making such a racket?”

“I was just laughing,” I said.

“Don’t you know that the people next door can hear you?” What was he thinking? Hadn’t I always laughed like that? Hadn’t my gaiety prompted him to remark more than once that my sense of humor was what he liked most about me?

“Just laughing?” he said.