Salma Seclusion

Mid-Poush, the Bengali month when winter sets in Bangladesh. If you get up early in the morning, you will see how clear dewdrops spread over the green grass and how the open horizon over the yellow rice-fields embraces the opaque mist. If you stroll along the powdery mud path in the village, you will see how the water in the pond dried up to a half and the shimul tree bending over its crow-eye water, showing off its velvety red buds on the bare branches.

You will see all these if you can transpose to the Bangladeshi village in the late twentieth century when the heroine of our story, Parul, lived and died there. But I know you do not wish to time-travel to Parul’s time or bring her time back into your digital times to watch Parul’s story. Like a voyeur watching being unwatched. Like a spy in search of the truth.

So, I am here. I am here to tell you her story. You call me a writer, meaning the person who writes, who tells stories with words. Some are a bit more generous than you. They call people like me painters, meaning those who paint with words. I am not particularly fond of names nowadays. Having been guilty of voyeurism since childhood and having attempted to write about what I watched a hundred times, I am now tired of storytelling. I wanted to escape stories, any story, no matter what. How long will I listen and tell stories? Amma used to tell us stories, and I tell stories to my daughters. My daughters will tell stories to their children one day, but will anything change because of this telling and telling?

Still, I am here today…furious and pissed off…I am here to tell you the story of one Parul with a moon-shaped face, a fair skin, a lovely smile, and serpent-like black hair. Parul married in her teens to a Dubaiwallah, a person who works in the Middle East and the Gulf. To earn bread and butter for their families, young men go to Arab countries, return to get married, and then return to their workplaces. Year after year, they cannot visit their families, and whenever they visit, they leave their wives pregnant, never seeing them getting swollen with babies, giving birth, and rearing them. Hahaha!

I received a message on Facebook this afternoon. How can we believe a woman? Women are frauds and liars…they are double-faced…one innocent face in public and one selfish face in private. They can win everything with their tears. How can I believe any woman anyway?

I was horrified. My body started to tremble. I was alone in my Brisbane home, and no one was there to hold me tight to stop my trembling. I do not know what caused the tremble; was it anger, or was it anguish, or was it memory? 

I could not calm myself…I was seeing the future: my nephew, who sent me the message from the Gulf, is marrying a semi-educated village girl, and then leaving her back home alone, he returned to his workplace, having phone-sex with her, and giving nasiha to guard her chastity…she eventually failed, and he is hastily returning home and beating her…

OMA! I was trembling…I was searching for ways to calm myself. I then came to the laptop. With a trembling hand, I pressed the button and kept my hands on the keyboard…I was screaming like The Girls from Tomorrow: please hurry, the halo-castle was here, let’s embark, and vanishshhhhhhh…

*********

A winter morning. Parul got up early and organised her crinkled cotton saree. She covered her head with the anchal and then took the shawl from the wooden alna. Covering her upper body with the shawl, she left the room and entered the open space of her chouchala house, known in Noakhali dialect as haillarduar, or the dining space. She checked the pitcher. It’s empty. She took the pitcher around her waist like a child and left the house for the pond. She washed her hands and mouth, cleaned her teeth with the residue from the burned coals, and finally performed an ablution. She then filled the pitcher and started for the house, where her mother-in-law, Nasima Banu, was already awake. Her father-in-law had been gone for several years, and Kabir, her husband, lived in Dubai. How long was it? Parul counted in her fingers…seventeen years….

This is her morning routine since her girlhood at this in-law’s house. Parul kept the pitcher on the pitcher-bowl and went into her cubicle, where her daughters sleep. Parul’s heart yearns for their touch, and she went to them and fondled their heads. She took the Jainamaz, spread it in the corner, and began her morning prayer. During uttering Allahuakbar, a deep sigh slithers through her nose like the fog that distorts the glasses.

Parul finished the prayer and then started reciting surahs she learned in a village maktab. She had only learned a handful, which she usually recited in her prayers. Beyond that, she had learned some duas and zikirs, which she recited after or during the prayers. Parul had not had any luck staying at the school after year five. Since she had her first period at the age of thirteen, she suddenly became a grown-up woman, and all became very concerned about marrying her off as soon as possible. No, don’t call it liability! Don’t call it responsibility! Don’t call it culture! It is a combination of all, with the spice of religion.

But what would you expect a girl to do except for marrying, doing chores, and giving birth? In an agrarian setting where an affluent, independent home can be achieved through the shared venture of land and home economics, men in the field and women at home, she needs to end the first chapter of her life at her father’s home with the first sign of womanliness and prepare to emerge into the broader picture of life as a domestic worker, a wife, a mother, a bride, and so on? Parul was not an exception, right?

But Parul’s was not even fully an agrarian society. Men left the field, as the barren land did not yield the gold as before, and the barren government could not foster local agriculture as in the past. So, they gathered in the labour market with little skills but robust bodies, offering hope to the vicious middlemen that they would earn a lot by sending them to the Gulf, Allah forbid! Let’s not drown them in the Gulf!

Hence, a rigorous search and research began on the available bridegrooms in the village and beyond. Women whisper, men nod their heads. Parul leaves her frocks and takes the saree, leaping with joy as hormones flow through her veins. Did Parul dream of a Middle Eastern migrant prince who, sailing like Sindbad, would anchor to her delta, select her, and vanish into the fairy land?

I don’t know. I was much younger than her. I used to see her when I visited my fufu’s home during winter vacation. She was then already married and used to rush to her father’s home when someone informed her that guests from the city had arrived. I saw her slide out of the covered rickshaw in a hurry, greeting Amma with a bubbly smile and a musical voice. She then embraced us, her little sister and brother, and her cousins, offering a broad smile and pushing her daughters toward me so that we could become pals.

I used to stare at her.

I used to try hard to remember where I had seen such a lovely face…The pages of my nursery rhyme book floated into my mind’s eyes. There was a moon face above the poem ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ which was like Parul Apa. I used to wonder where the writer of my book met Parul Apa, and how they drew the moon exactly like her. I began to love her so much.

Parul loved the idea of marriage. Learning from the surroundings. A dula, a man, a palky, a night, and then an embrace and a child.

“Your belly will be swollen day by day till one day you have a tremendous pain, and you will see a little ‘you’ beside you,” the naughty babhis whispers to her ear behind the elders.

“Your husband, have you seen him, so handsome…hey, don’t forget us when you enter her arms, okay? Let us share his hugs, too!”

“Do you know what to do when the moment comes?” They wink their eyes. Parul’s heart beats very fast. A hormonal flow increased the body temperature. She screams, “Stop! Stop! Shameless women! I don’t want to hear!”

But the naughty conversation goes on and on beside the hearth, on the cement stairs of the pond, and even when all the bhabis tread the rice on the yard. Every piece of information turns into knowledge, and every piece of knowledge turns into love. What a fate! Human beings do not need to be taught how to make love!

The dining space was full of relatives. Parul was on a choki, covering her face with a long gumta. All the festivals surrounding her wedding ceremony had been completed, and she was taken to her in-laws’ house. She felt really tired after days of long festivals and tireless work. She wept a lot during departure, and remembered Amma said, “What caused my sister to marry off such a little girl!” But who considered that she was only thirteen years old and a thirteen-year-old was a little girl? None, so in that dining space where all relatives sat on the pati, her father-in-law was showering her with advice. Every piece of advice looks like a sharp chilli, burning her lips and making her more tired.

“Bujcho, Bouma Parul, awoman needs to be good-hearted, frugal, and patient. They are the khuti or foundation of a house. When a foundation is strong, the house is strong. When a foundation is fragile, the house is fragile. Do you know the story of the wife of our beloved Prophet Ismail (AS)? The one when Ibrahim (AS) met her and then asked her to tell her husband that the khuti of her son’s house should be changed?”

The story began and then continued for a long time. The audience absorbed the story and was awestruck at the prophet’s wisdom, adding their voices to the elder man

“Parul, you need to be a good girl, a robust khuti, which does not need to be changed!” 

Parul loved telling and listening to stories. She nods. But tiredness pushed her into sleepiness. Within her cocoon, she closed her eyes, drooping only to be startled by the women around her

“Bou, are you sleeping? No, don’t. Listen to your baba’s story. He is now your murubbi.”

Parul shakes the sleep from her body and sits up again like a stick.

When the Isha azan started, the Majlisi was broken. She was put into her bedroom. Eagerly waiting for the probashi prince to come and uplift her! She looked through the crack in the tin door of her room. No trace of the prince, but a small face with a mischievous grin was staring at her. She knows the face: her brother-in-law, Nakib. Two years younger. Eleven. She first saw him when Kabir’s family visited her home to see her. Parul removed her gumta a little bit and beckoned him with a smile. But Nakib spurted away. And then, Kabir stepped into the room. He looked back at his little brother and sat on the bed, closing the door. He came closer to her and looked at her, humming the song, Chder sathe ami debona tomar tulona. I don’t want to compare you with the moon. Love breaks down two hearts in an ancient confluence in the river.

Kabir’s heart ached. Cabbaging Parul in his arms, he whispered,

‘How will I do Bidesh, leaving you here, such beauty?’

‘Please come after every six months. I will wait for you.’

‘Who will give me a leave every six months? The kafil is not that generous.’

‘Please tell him, I am waiting for you at home.’ Parul said innocently, and Kabir shivered with a giggle. The moon shines over the bamboo bush. A nightbird chirps, calling her mates in the dark forest.

*****

Aye, are you listening to my story? No, no, no sleeping, no tiredness today. If you don’t listen to me, I will slap you hard right on the face… no, not your actual face, but a digital face that my messenger is showing. I will take screenshots and smear your face with the black colour from the doodle. It’s a digital blessing. We do not need to throw anger toward the image in our hearts, as we did in the analogue age. We can see the person’s online presence and throw all the cigarette butts towards them…

Okay, let’s come back to Parul, your fufu, your father’s younger sister. The most loving one at home. The loveliest moon in our women’s world. The woman in your history, whom you have smeared with bad names today in your message. You, Ignorant; stupid; fool!

*****

Ten years passed. In the meantime, Parul’s father-in-law died. Her mother-in-law grew older and sick. She gave birth to two daughters. Kabir could not come every six months, but Parul accepted this with a heavy heart and grew accustomed to managing her daily life alongside her daughters and household chores. She sometimes looked at herself in the mirror. What a miracle! With time, she had turned into an exquisite beauty. She touched her waist, breast, neck, hips, legs, and arms…no crinkles anywhere, as people said, after marriage, after childbirth, you will be older. You will lose the beauty you have in your teens. Parul wonders how incorrect they are! In her twenties, she is even more beautiful. A kind of lustre glazes in her skin. The curves are sharpened.

Parul sighs! If Kabir understood her! If Kabir were here to stare at her bronze body and fill her emptiness! No, that is a dream! She needs to wait infinitely for him to come this time…

One day, during such a time, the sky broke over the village with heavy rain and hail. Since evening, Parul has been staying inside the house with her daughters, Rumi and Shumi. They were playing in their grandma’s room on the bed. Suddenly, lightning flashed, and the electricity went out. Parul lit three candles and one hurricane. She first hung the hurricane in her mother-in-law’s room, put one in her room, and one in the dining space. The remaining one she took to Nakib’s room, from where he was screaming,

“Bhabi, please bring the light!”

Parul went to his room, put the candle on the table, and pulled his ear very hard.

“Hey, can’t you go there and light the candle by yourself?”

Nakib did not say anything. He smiles and grimaces at her.

Parul returned to her mother-in-law’s room and found that Rumi and Shumi had already fallen asleep. With the rain and cold, they were shivering a little.

“I am carrying them to my room. Don’t worry!” she said, knowing well that Nazma Begum does not like anyone to stay with her since Baba died.

‘No. Let them sleep here today. You go, take your dinner, and go to sleep too. The rain will not stop today. What’s the point of remaining awake? I am not eating anything.’

Parul nodded and raised her voice to call Nakib to dine with her. Nakib shouted,

“No, I will not eat now. If I need to, I will eat by myself. You eat.”

Parul took her meal, prayed the last prayer of the day, and, extinguishing the candle, went to bed.

Was Parul aware that at that time, not all fires could be extinguished? Specifically, the fire that broke out in one’s own home from an unknown source? Parul lay on the bed. A thin katha covers her body from neck to toe. Many worries vied for prominence in her head. Who knows what Kabir was doing now? When would she receive another letter? Rumi and Shumi are growing up. They needed extra tuition for higher grades. But how can she manage the fees? She feels lonely sometimes. She longs to touch Kabir, but who knows when he will come.

Sleep went far away. Darkness gradually became thinner. Parul moved her eyes from the roof to the half-closed door. Her heart sank…who was there? Who was staring at her? She got panicked. In the dark, a pair of white eyes was staring at her. She sat on the bed and tried to see through the darkness…the figure bolted towards the corridor. Parul’s heart started to beat faster. She took the match and lit the candle again and called to her mother-in-law,

“Maa, are you okay?”

The old woman was silent.

She raised her voice again,

“Nakib, were you in the dining space?”

Nakib was silent too. She was about to lie on the bed. Nakib screamed,

“Na, bhabi…are you still awake? Go to sleep.”

Parul felt flabbergasted. She clearly saw a pair of eyes. She was fearful. Many bad ideas crammed into her head. All night, she tried to brush them from her mind and could not sleep.

******

This was the beginning of a new era in Parul’s life. She kept seeing a pair of eyes following her everywhere—in the pond, in the kitchen, in the dining space, in the bed. Nakib was always around her. He wore a different mood and paid extra attention to her. Parul wanted to know what happened to him. Quite playfully. She wanted to know if he had anything to say. She wanted to know if he was okay. Even, she once asked, “Hey, have you fallen in love with someone? Tell me. I will bring the bride home.” He kept saying ‘okay’ all the time.

Parul sensed that all was not okay with him. The way he gazed at her was not quite right. Parul tried to decipher the meaning, but she chastised her hard for thinking badly of Nakib. “Tawba, Tawba!” He is my brother. He would never be able to think of anything different about me. I am his brother’s wife, a person of reverence to him. Our families are observant Muslims. Nothing bad would prevail.

Parul was also blaming herself for mistaking his gaze. Nakib did nothing but loiter around her. What does he have to do now except loiter at home? He had failed his BA three times, lived on his brother’s income, and was involved in village politics. Maa is frustrated and furious with him and has asked him not to leave the home, not to mix with the village rogues, and not to help them with household chores. So, what did he have to do but stay home and do the work that men usually do at home for women? She wanted to tell Kabir to take him to the Gulf on a labour visa too. Maa does not want to listen to such a thing. She wants Nakib to stay with her while her other son is away. So, who was she, anyway, to talk about their family matters? Nakib was consuming his brother’s earnings, not hers, and not sharing her portion, either. Let it go!

But women’s sixth sense was miraculous. They are the heralds of the message into the soul, even when they do not pay heed to it. After a week of loitering around her, one night, Nakib invaded her room and lay beside her. Parul was deep in sleep, her mind peaceful and her sense of security intact, after locking her tin door with a hook. She started to come to her senses when she felt someone lying very close to her, and a robust arm crossed over her.

Parul was about to shout, but in one second, a hand pressed her mouth and whispered, “Please, don’t shout! I am your lover. I love you, Parul. I cannot live without you.”

Parul instantly recognised Nakib’s voice, and she was shocked. She could not think how he entered her room despite the hook. She could not think of Rumi and Shumi, who were sleeping on the other side of her bed. She felt disgusted…her body got benumbed. She wanted to say many things, but she could not fight against Nakib’s manly strength, which kept pressing her mouth in one hand and stroking her on the other. A little Nakib of her age has grown into a man, a perverse man!

Nakib whispered,

“Bhaia is not here. I understand how you feel. Why can’t you ask me for the love? Am I not your friend? Your mate? You know, you became really beautiful. The other day, I saw you bathing in the pond…an idol, I want to worship you.”

Parul looked at his face. Darkness is lighter now. She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to fix things. She begged Nakib with her eyes to let her mouth go, promising that she would not shout. Nakib yielded and removed his hand, but not the brace he had created around her body.

Parul whispers,

“Please, Nakib, please, don’t loot my honour. I am your sister-in-law. I am your sister. It’s a sin…it’s a betrayal. I will bring you a bride whomsoever you like. I will discuss your marriage with Maa. Let’s do it together. A gorgeous marriage ceremony…

Nakin became crazy. He rolled his whole body onto Parul. Parul felt the ancient urge and transformation in his lower body.

“Naa, I don’t need anyone. I love you. I need you.” He moaned.

Parul felt flabbergasted. What kind of change was it? Nakin was desiring her? Parul felt hurt. But she tricks Nakib to save her from him.

“I am not ready today. If you love me, you need to listen to me.” Nakib loosened his grip gradually and demanded, “Then, you stroke me, I love your touch.”

“Please go now. We will talk about it all tomorrow.”

Parul started sobbing. Nakib organised his dishevelled clothes and left the room. For the rest of the night, Parul kept sobbing. Her muffled sound sometimes stirred the girls. But nothing in the world. One thing was for sure: she knew that she was in a deep current. She does not want to flow with the current’s pressure. She is an honourable woman, married, and she loves Kabir, her daughter’s father, more than anything.

*****

Early in the morning. Parul did not talk to anybody. She changed her clothes and put on a black burkha. She would go to her mother and talk to her. She needed to save herself from this invading man. How could she do this? Oh, how could she save herself while they are living in the same house? She could not believe her brother-in-law, who had been just a child like her during her wedding, could do that to her. He could look at her with lusty eyes and wanted to sleep with her! Agah! How did he lose his sense of boundaries, which Muslim families usually maintain? Where had all these senses of propriety gone? How Nakib had gone astray…doing nothing… who knew what he did when he spent night after night in the bazaar!

Parul’s mother, Sakinah, was surprised to see Parul early in the morning at her door. She was reciting the Quran when she saw Parul enter through the dining room door, which faced the kitchen yard and remained open for the rest of the day.

“Parul, you?” She beamed with joy and embraced the granddaughters. “Come, come.”

Parul’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of Sakinah. She jumped into Sakinah’s arms and hugged her tightly, breaking into a deep sobbing. Rumi and Shumi were flabbergasted. They first stared at their mum, then went to the yard to play with the children.

Sakinah took Parul to the wooden prayer choki. They both sat together. When the kids were not around, Sakinah started her zerra, or accosting,

“What happened? Did Beyain behave rudely? Did she scold you? Is Kabir okay? Did he send you money for the month? Did you get letters from him? Did you not talk to him over the phone?” Referring to the analogue phone at the bazaar, where Parul sometimes went to talk to Kabir.

The probashi’s wives got this opportunity if their in-laws’ family allowed them to go to the bazaar and talk to their husbands. This was considered a privilege and a gesture of generosity on the part of the in-laws if they did so.

Parul tried hard to wipe her tears, but they were streaming down her face. She hesitated for some moment, not knowing how to break the information. Such an awkward topic! Kemne she bolbe?

‘Maa, Nakib came to my room last night.’

‘So…’ Sakinah looked perplexed. She could not reach the meaning, and she could not even understand the problem of coming to her room. Nakib was her family member, her brother-in-law. They live in the same house. She cooked and cleaned for them all. What’s the problem with his coming to her room?

“He wanted something from me…he gave me some nasty hints….” Parul mumbled into her breath, looking down at the floor.

“Innalillah …. What did you say? I cannot believe it! How? He was just a child when you got married! Allahuakbar…Allah, please save my daughter’s honour, oh Allah, save my daughter.” Sakinah began to wail. She became terrified. Her head was reeling. But at the next moment, she became conscious of society and surroundings.

“Just shut up. Complete shut up. Don’t utter a word. If people know, your husband knows, they will blame you for ensnaring the unmarried boy. Just go as if nothing happened, you did not understand his hints…Just turn a cold shoulder. You need to stay in that house. It was your home, your destination. You went to that home wearing a red saree, and now you pray to Allah as though you would come out from that house wearing a white kafan. You have two daughters. Consider their future. If society knows about this, our reputation will be destroyed, and no one will marry your daughters…no wealthy family. Ensure complete silence…It is just the eyes’ greed, men’s usual stuff, every man suffers from this at a young age when blood boils in their loins…they cannot then differentiate who is who…it would go away… don’t worry, just show that you did not understand what he hinted at you… do your own work…’

Parul listened to Sakinah and tried to determine her future course of action. She started to soften to the event and started to rummage through her daily life to see if she was responsible in any way for provoking lust in Nakib. Did she behave anyway which attracted him to her? Did her Anchal move out of place while she worked? Did she talk playfully, which, for a long time, she had been doing, meant different things to Nakib? Did she flirt with him anytime? Did she share with him that she was lonely and missed her brother?

Parul sat contemplating. Sakinah got up from her place and went to the kitchen.

“Don’t worry much. All will be alright. Please come, eat breakfast, and then I will call for a rickshaw.”

Parul became restless and fearful with the thought of returning home. But she knew she would have to go. That was her house, her destiny, from where she would need to come out in a kafan!

Nazma, Parul’s mother-in-law, became furious seeing Parul entering her home.

“You nawabjadi, where have you gone early in the morning? How dare you when so many things to do in the morning…I would tell my son you did not pay any attention to the family, to me, to Nakib…Can you say where your heart is? Where did it loiter except for the family?”

She was carrying the pitch on her waist and taking it to the hearth to prepare lunch. Parul did not say anything. She went to her room, took off her clothes, and went straight to the hearth area. She took a broom and cleaned the hearth side where three types of green and orange vegetables were mocking her. She handled them roughly while cleaning the place, then took the iron cutter and began chopping them. Was she chopping her anger and frustration with them?

All day, Nakib was nowhere to be found. She did not see a spec of him anywhere. Parul felt relieved. But when night fell, Parul became apprehensive. She could not think of spending another night alone, unprotected, in her room. Her body was shaking, and she was reciting duas so that she would be saved for that night.

Nakib came home around eight o’clock. Seeing Nakib, Nazma became furious. She threw a series of abusive words at him and then started wailing about her fate, which betrayed her, giving her a bad son, who was a vagabond. Nakin seemed not to mind. He smiled at Nazma and went to her room, where he embraced her. Then with a soft voice, he said,

“Maa, don’t cry, you will see one day I will go Bidesh like Bhaia and earn a lot of money, and you will have two earning sons at her home, and you will be a queen.”

Then he changed his voice like a pampered child,

“But none love me…none adore me…not you…not Parul Bhabi… no one cares about me like an intimate person.”

Parul’s heart raced at his every word, which was making its way through the bamboo walls. She became fearful, “Oh Allah’’ was the only word she could utter.

At the boy’s provocation, Nazma lit up like a flash.

“Don’t talk about her…she is the nawabjadi. She would do whatever she likes. She forgot nowadays to serve you food in three times a day. She learnt to ignore you…This morning she went somewhere without my permission. I would tell Kabir that she was becoming careless and disobedient day by day…

She then started calling Parul’s name.

“Parul…Parul.”

Hurriedly, covering her head, Parul rushed to Nazma’s door and stood there with a pale face. Her body was shivering with unprecedented fear, the fear of a mother, a matriarch at their home.

“Maa…”

“Don’t call me maa…where have you gone today morning? My son is not here, and you are doing whatever you like? Did you forget that you have a sashuri and a brother-in-law to take care? Weren’t we a bou like you at our young age? Did we not give birth to five children and also take care of the whole in-laws’ family? What happened to you?”

Parul could not look at Nakib’s face. She hated to look at him. But she saw through the line of her eyes that a naughty smile was playing on his face, which said, See, how I have caught you. She was disgusted.

“It is the final warning from me. No hunky-punky from now on. Do the household chores attentively and look after Nakib. I don’t want anything from you…I am an old woman, you just give me some food, I will eat and lie down…what else do I want from you?”

Nazma made sounds with her mouth, showing how her body aches and longs for a long rest.

Rumi and Shumi watched all these dramas and looked at their mother’s tearful face. They fell silent and pulled at her anchal. It was already late for dinner. Parul wiped her tears. She pushed her daughters away from her and called both the mother and son for dinner.

“Come, I am serving food.” Her heart longed for a cage where she could lock her and where Nakib had no entrance.

O that thought, after dinner, Parul searched for some strong rope in the store room, so that she could make some other clutches on top of the fragile lock to bolt her bamboo door strongly so that Nakib could not break or cut it easily. She cut the rope into some pieces and took them to her room. When all were in bed, she made eight small holes in the door and the bamboo walls to which the door was attached. And then, like strings on the open blouse, she stitched eight big crosses along the opening line of the door and then bound the ends. Parul then shakes the door a bit and feels glad that they were really tight and strong. To enter, one needs a sharp knife and several hours to cut through it, and as the rope was coarse, it would make a sound that would awaken her mother-in-law. Nakib would not take such a risk. Parul also became frustrated. How long would she do this to protect herself at her own place? She needed a strong door. She decided to talk to Kabir. Even if he scolded her.

******

For the next half a month, Kabir was like a mad dog. He not only remained enraged all day but also started doing things that upset the whole household. One day, he threw a plate of rice at Parul when she called him to dinner and served him rice and curry. Another day, he slapped Rumi on nothing. The day after, he shouted at Nazma for more money on top of his monthly tips. Another day, he threw the silver pitcher on the mud floor while Parul was returning from the pond and deformed it. He did not listen to any words. He went out for the daily shopping and did not return till evening. And when he returned, Parul had to cook in the evening. Nazma regularly rebuked him for his disobedience, but nothing worked.

All households in the Bari started to notice his madness and said, “Nazma apa, he is seyana now, please bring a bride for him and you will see everything will calm down,” or some elderly woman said, “youth to blame, no remedy except marriage.” Nazma wonders about their words and considers discussing the issue with Kabir. Surely, Kabir will consent to Nakib’s marriage.

Parul smiled within herself. Served him well! She also prayed to God, “Oh, Allah, bring a bride into the house, and I will be saved.”

She also wrote a secret letter to Kabir, requesting that he find a bride for Nakib. She also requested him to send money for the wedding ceremony. She even made some jokes about married life when Nakib was in the rear. She wanted to drift Nakib from her to an unknown woman’s river where he would sink and swim in peace and relief. And she could go on her usual life with a reverie of Kabir, her daughters, and live happily ever after.

But when a tiger becomes mad for the flesh of a deer, none can appease it. The month of Asar set in early that year. For several days, it poured. Parul saw Nazma complaining that she hadn’t visited her sister’s home in a long time and decided to visit them that week. Parul also asked Nazma several times for permission to visit her mother when Nazma was not there. She consented on the condition that Parul could go by to cook some items for Nakib when they were both away. Parul became happy at this plan. She decided to finish cooking by the afternoon and call a rickshaw in the evening. She also organised her bag for several days’ worth of clothes.

Early morning, a rickshaw came, and Nazma said goodbye to them. Parul was full of joy. She told her daughters that when they came back from school, they would visit Nana’s house in the evening and stay there for a few days. The thought of not spending the night alone in a house with Nakib pleased her. She started humming a song while working around rainfall near the main house, the kitchen, and the pond.

At one point in her work, Parul needed to bring a bowl from the shelf in the dining space. When Parul was bending over the shelves to see what was inside, she heard the door close softly behind her. She sprang to her feet and turned back. Nakib was standing in front of her. Gloom clutched everything around her. Rain was smashing on the tin roof. The curry was on the hearth. The bowl in her right hand.

“Nakib, I would kill you…why did you close the door?”

“Please shhhhhhh.” Nakib puts his finger on his lips. “None will know. Only you and I are here. None will know. I love you. I love you. Why are you talking about bringing a wife?”

“You stupid, have you eaten your head? I am your bhabi. Your brother’s wife. You can’t love me. You can’t touch me. You can’t do this to me.”  

Nakib shook his head like a drunkard and grasped Parul hard, stepping a step forward. Parul struggled hard to free herself. The bowl fell from her hand. She was looking toward the front window and wished that someone would knock on it from outside, see her misery, and save her by calling people, but all the windows were closed! The rain was banging on the tin roof. Not a single soul around. How meticulous his plan was! Nakib did not lose his grip over her slender body and started to drag her towards her room, the lace-lock room. Parul started slapping, biting, and juggling with him. But he ignored her and threw her on the bed. He took off all his clothes and stared at her, Parul, a coiled body with dishevelled hair and a sari. The moonlit skin shines here and there…beautiful! Nakib hurried towards her coiled body and started to untangle her wet clothes. The more visible Parul was, the more dazzled Nakib felt. Tears flicked through Parul’s eyes. She could feel his gaze, his weight, and his warmth on her wet skin, his frantic agitation, and her heart rend in wailing.

“You have kept me waiting for the day soooo loooooog! You tricked me!”

Parul caught his face in her hand and wanted to look at his eyes.

“Nakib, dear, I am your sister-in-law! I am of your age. We played together when I first came here. My dear, I am your sister…sister-in-laaaaw!”

Nothing entered Nakib’s restless brain. Under muffled sighs, Nakib said, eyes averted from Parul’s eyes,

“No words, please. Toodaaaaay… no wooords. I love you. I need you. That’s it. The beautiful moon I see every day is waning in front of my eyes. The bloody brother cannot give you what you need. I will give you all. I will satisfy you.”

He started to stroke her radiant body in the interplay of light and darkness and kissed her frantically. At every forceful touch, Parul became pained. Her body began to shiver as hormones flowed. Long time, no touch! True…But…she was not an adulterer…never ever. Allah knew…she could become like the dry branch of the date tree, but she could never do such a thing!

Parul took another step to throw Nakib off her body. With all her strength, she shook his arms,

“Hey, what happened to you? You bloody badmash…leave me. Leave me at once….”

Then she changed her tone a bit louder,

“Hey, don’t you feel that you are a brother-betrayer? He will kill you. He will kill me. Don’t you think of my daughters?”  

Words choked in her throat, and tears trickled from her eyes. Nakib was not listening. He is licking her skin, like an ice cream, and making grunting noises. Parul loathed the sight and sounds around her, surfacing through the net-like thin darkness of the rainy day.

“Five years of parchment, I will fill you up today. Not only today. For your whole life.”

A ghastly feeling spread through Parul’s face. A furious clench of teeth made her clash with Nakib’s animal face and bite Nakib’s lower lip hard. Blood oozed. Nakib grinned through the blood and revelled in joy.

“I did it. I did it. My love, where is your honour now? Where is your chastity now? You know how to get the highest joy by resisting…aghh! You whore.”

Parul felt disgusted by her trapped body. She fought her own body not to soften, not to yield, not to submit. She screamed,

“I will kill you. I will kill you.”

“I want to be killed. I want to be killed.”

“No…Nakib…no,” She flailed her legs to avoid his last attack and scratched Nakib’s face.

Nakib shouts,

“Better enjoy the moment, you, bitch….”

And with that, a storm tore through Parul’s body, and she felt like a sharp boulder had fallen on the land.

Once the fence was broken, the cow began grazing the forbidden field every day. No resistance, no request, no pleading, no sobbing, no crying, no shouting worked. Nakib used to wait for the perfect moment and invade her. Sometimes at night, sometimes at midday, before Parul went to the pond after finishing household work. When no one was around. Every time he came, Parul abused him like a beast. Parul scratched him like a tigress. Parul cried her head off. But nothing worked. He overpowered her every time, either with manliness or with brutal force, and took what he needed. Every time Nakib played with her body, Parul felt guilty of being aroused. Parul hated her body and the feeling of something crawling into her veins during such moments.

Parul did not visit her mother after that. She even left, locking her door. What’s the point? She became like a robot, cooking, cleaning, and mating. Often, she wondered what happened to his body, a body she had seen so small and fragile, and now so strong, so muscular that her thin, light and five-foot stature was nothing for him to carry, to trample, to bruise. What happened to her that she did not have the strength to push him away, to throw him out of the door, to free herself from his clutches! Monster! Surely, he is a Monster! A jinni in the tamarind tree! Or he knew the black magic. She heard the enchanters gain tremendous power…Sometimes Parul sat with a knife or a vegetable cutter and shooed him away, gesturing like I-would-kill-you. He made way to her from behind in the cursed, empty house and carried her away defenceless and helpless.

A month slipped away. Nazma Begum returned home one afternoon. She was happy to see that everything looked good. Nakib was glad, and Parul was soft! She felt satisfied. She made dua for Parul for the first time. What she did not grasp is why, now and then, Parul wailed sitting in the hearth like a witch from the tamarind tree at the end of the road in the village. She felt that she should talk to the hujur and bring some holy water to bathe her.

*****

You, I know, are now grumpy. Your face is dark. Your eyebrows twist with disgust. Why am I describing the sex scene in detail? How does your aunt pretend that she knows so much? How your aunt is such a shameless woman… describing the forbidden, the sin, the taboo to her own Nephew! Maybe you now want to disembark from my Royal halo and escape the story! You can disembark if you want! You can wax your ear like Odysseus and his crew to save yourself from our Siren songs. I don’t care! I confess that if you were before me and I were to tell you these verbally, I would shrink away. I would censor my words and pretend to be good. But I am happy to be writing. I can utter the truth in black and white! This is the power of writing! We can write what we cannot tell. And I must tell what I have heard! Through cues, clues, signs, and clicks in the mouth in dialects among women behind the men and behind the door! Those disgusting cues should be translated into my writing into such blatant scenarios…

******

Six months later. One night, Parul got terrified, counting on her fingers the date of her period. Already seven days late. She became crazy. Her whole body was shaking. She went to Nakib’s room and shoved him with her hands,

“Why did you do this to me? Why? Hey…why did you do this to me? Hey?”

She kept repeating the words, shouting, and beating Nakib. Nakib was terrified. He began shouting and asking her to leave him. But the more he tried to save him, the more she pulled his shirt, his hair…she raised her hands to beat and scratch him.

Hearing the tumult, Nazma ran into the room and found Parul dishevelled and mad, unable to understand what was happening.

“What happened? Hey, what happened?”

For one second, Parul stopped and then, turning to her mother-in-law, she shouted at the top of her voice,

“Your son used me, raped me, destroyed me…for the last six months…You devil asked me to take care of him and see what he did to me…”

“Innnalillah…”

Nazma became furious, reading the meaning between the lines, and, upon entering the room, she slapped Nakib hard across the face, then turned to Parul and pressed her hand to her mouth, and hissed like a snake,

“shhhhhhshsh…if anyone knows about it, I will kill you. You bloody whore…You woman cunt…your husband went to Bidesh, and you are sleeping with my little son? Right? I will serve you right! Let my son come home.”

Parul became petrified in her place. She completely lost her words and her former temper. But in the next moment, she shouted,

“Ask him who did what? Whether I am to blame!”

“shshshshssh…I know you, Dubaiwallah’s wives…You have so much poison in your body that you cannot lull them except men…”

She then dragged Parul out of the room and pushed her into her room. She took Rumi and Shumi with her to her room and sat there like a still swan waiting for a snail.

After that, many things happened. Nazma came to Parul’s mother and complained about her. She also consulted with some other women in the locality about what to do about her pregnancy. The women’s husbands learned of the matter. From the husbands, the news reached Kabir in the Gulf. Parul got a long letter of threats and murders from him and a warning that he would divorce her once he was at home!

Then one day, early in the morning, Sakinah came to Parul’s house. After some whispering with Nazma, she called Parul.

“Here is the medicine. If you take them, the baby will go away,” she hands Parul a small white paper-covered bottle. “Take it now and get rid of your kalanka.”

Sakinah’s heart was rending with pain and shame. She knew that her daughter was not like this. Something bad happened. She heard about how badmash and bohemian Nakib has become! But what can she do now? After everything happened? Purusher gaye ki kalanker dag lagano eto soja? She also has no way to bring her daughter back to her home after fifteen years of marriage. Two of her daughters will enter their marriageable age so soon!

Parul did what her mothers wanted. She herself did not want to carry the proof of her shame and prostitution! The rest will be her fate! If her husband came!

But the situation took a new turn in the afternoon. A cramp started first and then bleeding. Both mothers became happy at first. Thanks to Allah! Signs of clearing up of the sin! They sent her ailing body to the toilet and told her to wait for the embryo to slip out of the uterus. Parul kept sitting in the toilet. Bleeding went on and on…lump after lump was breaking down from where only Allah knows!

Nazma knocked on the door.

“Hey, come out…what happened?”

“Maa, bleeding is not stopping.” She came back, took some cotton, and handed it beneath the door.

“Wear them and come out. Everything will be okay after several hours.”

Parul tried to get up from the toilet. She felt giddy. A kind of vertigo! Despite this, she tried to obstruct the flow from her body and came out and went to bed. But in bed, she felt she could not move. Bleeding flowed through her body and began to soak the thick katha beneath her. She felt extremely weak and tried to sit down…but while she tried, she felt her head reeling and lost her consciousness.

After a long half-hour, Sakinah came to her room to check how she felt. But when she found her not moving, looking unconscious, she started shouting and crying. Several women came inside the room. They tried every means to shake off her unconsciousness. Someone suggested taking her to the doctor. Someone asked a person to call a rickshaw or a van.

No van was there. A rickshaw came. The unconscious Parul was taken to the rickshaw, and Sakinah was beside her, trying hard to hold her body, which was slipping away from the seat to the ground. Men and children around her rickshaw, holding her and moving slowly so that Parul did not slip out of the vehicle. Red blood dripping tuptuptup from her saree. Roads traced the course of her new journey.

*****

The local government hospital emergency department. Shabby and cramped with patients. Doctors were serving them to the highest of their abilities, with love and with irritation.

Parul was on one bed, still and pale. Twelve hours have gone by.

The doctor came out of the room and asked the nurse to call one of the relatives to talk with him. One of the faraway relatives who accompanied Parul to the hospital moved forward as the Nurse directed.

“Doctor, how is Parul?”

“No good! Did she take any medicine recently…for an abortion…I mean?”

“I don’t know…I am not in her family.”

“That was not the right medicine, and she overdosed. It was just for another purpose. Pray to Allah as though nothing serious happens. She is at high risk. We are trying our best.”

The next day. Early in the morning. Parul regained her consciousness for a second. She did not open her eyes, but she moved her hands a little and then mumbled something the doctors could not read. They came forward to her bed and checked things to see if everything was okay. But the heartbeat started to decline every second, and doctors saw Parul drifting toward death. At 7:43 am.  

******

This is the story of my sister Parul, the story of your aunt, the very aunt who was your father’s sister. Your own aunt, your own blood. I heard this story from Amma, your beloved nanu. After Parul Apa died, the news spread everywhere, even to Chittagong. Amma stopped working immediately after receiving the news and fell onto the floor, weeping,

“Ahare, dear Parul, my loving Parul. Oh, poor Parul! Oh, moon Parul!”

I was preparing for college, and hearing Amma’s wailing, I went to her and embraced her tightly. I was sad, but I was not that intimate with Parul Apa, as I was much younger than her and grew up in the city, far from her life. I knew nothing about her except that she was my cousin, a married woman with two daughters. I knew her—her sweet smile, good words! So, I was not as touched as Amma. But I asked her what happened to Parul Apa. She told me the whole story, every bit and piece, wailing and crying, paused by her words, “Oh Parul, how hard she tried to escape that hooligan, but she could not…Oh, Parul….”

My teenage body started to shiver. I felt like something was hurting in my body. I decided not to go to college. At first, I could not understand how Amma knew about the event. She told me that last time, when she went to our village home, she heard something about that and warned my fufu about the consequences. She also provided every detail of the events that you call a sex scene (was it really a sex scene? Or a scene of violence against the weak? A scene of harrowing power relations…a crime scene behind the closed door?)

I was wondering how she knew. I was thirsty to know why Parul Apa was unable to resist and escape his trap.

Amma links home, body, and power dynamics when describing our village, our families, and our social ties, and shows how biological and social forces intersect in such a sinful act. I was surprised by her wisdom, given that she did not finish high school. She is a voracious reader, though… reading widely on women’s stories and discourses. I have seen The Begum magazine piled up on our shelf.

The story of Parul Apa then spread among all the relatives. Everyone seemed to know everything, but only talked within their own spheres. The story went on and on, like spirals among all the relatives in the extended family setting and reached my teenage brother in the city. He was curious about what had happened to Parul Apa.

I remember one night, Amma and I heard, from the balcony, that my visiting cousin was telling my brother Parul Apa’s story in the deep night, when they had been in bed. The same clicks and clues! My cousin brother was at the funeral. He has seen how the white kafan got red with blood. He saw how the elders collected a dark bedcover to cover her body while taking the corpse to the graveyard. He also saw that the bedcover was thrown away after that as unusable, and that some elders badmouthed Parul Apa.

After that, how many years have passed? Twenty years! I never opened my mouth. I never gave the story a thought. I never told the story. I pushed the pain in my spine and taught it to be upright and strong if a spec of violence like this ever threatened to shadow my life. I clenched my teeth with anger and taught them to bite the men-like beast if the occasion arises!

But today, dear Nephew, huh, you made me open my mouth! You made me tell the story when one Muslim woman teacher, suffering from couple violence and domestic violence, opened her mouth on social media, and you commented on my post about that woman and her interview…quite abusively: “shame on her…she has brought the family into the social media!”

Shame on you! You failed to see why a woman opens her mouth in public! You failed to see the physical and sexual abuse, suffering, trauma, and violence she faced in her home. You cannot bolt now! You must listen! You must sit down! You must know your family history! You must know before further badmouthing women how, behind your pride over the best Bengali Muslim family legacy, streams of blood flowed and reddened the very foundation on which you build your mindset towards women.

The very women whose blood you carry in your veins!

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