take Kakima to the hospital,” I replied.
“Who is Kakima?”
“Subhash’s mother.”
“Why you? Can’t someone else do it?”
“There are others, but she wants me to do it.”
“And so you go running instead of staying with me! Why can’t you refuse her? Call and tell her you’re busy.”
Strictly speaking, Haroon was correct. Kakima could easily have asked someone else to take her to the hospital; the appointment was just a checkup. But she was family. She and Subhash and his brother Sujit had stayed at our place for almost two months when Subhash and I were at school. She loved me like a mother would, and Subhash and I often played at being twins (he was sixteen days older than me). The arrangement had come about when Subhash’s father, Nitun, had decided to move to Calcutta and asked my father to buy his property. My father refused, but instead offered to help with money—he and Nitun were lifelong friends, and Baba was upset that Nitun was even thinking of leaving Wari, but Nitun insisted on the move and sold the property cheaply. There were farewells, but just on the verge of departure, Nitun developed chest pains. Very quickly, his heart weakened, and when he suddenly died, Baba advised Kakima against moving to Calcutta.
And so Kakima rented a place next to us and Baba became her protector and guardian to her children. Subhash and his family were not, therefore, merely neighbors. Though she did sewing to maintain herself and her sons, Kakima was always there when we needed her. She sent the boys to a good school in the city, but when it came time for Subhash to go to college she couldn’t afford it. Baba paid the costs until Subhash got his MA and became the man of the house. I met Arzu though Subhash. They had become close friends in spite of the fact that Arzu was from a very rich family. None of this ever stood in the way of their friendship or of Subhash and me descending on Arzu’s elegant
Gulshan house for an afternoon meal. Arzu was a playmate whose hair we pulled, whose back we thumped, and whom we teased to no end. Arzu and Subhash were my childhood friends, just like Nadira and Chandana, with whom I was free and easy.
Then I found myself in love with Haroon, a business-man. I hadn’t intended to fall in love with someone who had money. Nor did I know the world from which Haroon came. I fell for his looks, his voice, and the way he spoke—the memory of it moves me even now that I understand it was not his everyday voice. He certainly no longer spoke to me that way once we were married, in that voice wet with feeling.
As I sat there in the bathroom, taking stock of the past few days, my mind throbbed with scattered, panicked thoughts. Everything was topsy-turvy. My life was being pulled down into a tornado, a gathering storm. I had managed pretty well, I’d always thought. But what I felt coming toward me was utterly unfamiliar, and I was too young to understand that my husband’s irrational behavior had nothing to do with me, that he was in the grip of a monstrous obsession of which not even he was conscious. I had never felt such confusion and fear. What was I to do now?
6
H aroon 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
“Who is Kakima?”
“Subhash’s mother.”
“Why you? Can’t someone else do it?”
“There are others, but she wants me to do it.”
“And so you go running instead of staying with me! Why can’t you refuse her? Call and tell her you’re busy.”
Strictly speaking, Haroon was correct. Kakima could easily have asked someone else to take her to the hospital; the appointment was just a checkup. But she was family. She and Subhash and his brother Sujit had stayed at our place for almost two months when Subhash and I were at school. She loved me like a mother would, and Subhash and I often played at being twins (he was sixteen days older than me). The arrangement had come about when Subhash’s father, Nitun, had decided to move to Calcutta and asked my father to buy his property. My father refused, but instead offered to help with money—he and Nitun were lifelong friends, and Baba was upset that Nitun was even thinking of leaving Wari, but Nitun insisted on the move and sold the property cheaply. There were farewells, but just on the verge of departure, Nitun developed chest pains. Very quickly, his heart weakened, and when he suddenly died, Baba advised Kakima against moving to Calcutta.
And so Kakima rented a place next to us and Baba became her protector and guardian to her children. Subhash and his family were not, therefore, merely neighbors. Though she did sewing to maintain herself and her sons, Kakima was always there when we needed her. She sent the boys to a good school in the city, but when it came time for Subhash to go to college she couldn’t afford it. Baba paid the costs until Subhash got his MA and became the man of the house. I met Arzu though Subhash. They had become close friends in spite of the fact that Arzu was from a very rich family. None of this ever stood in the way of their friendship or of Subhash and me descending on Arzu’s elegant
Gulshan house for an afternoon meal. Arzu was a playmate whose hair we pulled, whose back we thumped, and whom we teased to no end. Arzu and Subhash were my childhood friends, just like Nadira and Chandana, with whom I was free and easy.
Then I found myself in love with Haroon, a business-man. I hadn’t intended to fall in love with someone who had money. Nor did I know the world from which Haroon came. I fell for his looks, his voice, and the way he spoke—the memory of it moves me even now that I understand it was not his everyday voice. He certainly no longer spoke to me that way once we were married, in that voice wet with feeling.
As I sat there in the bathroom, taking stock of the past few days, my mind throbbed with scattered, panicked thoughts. Everything was topsy-turvy. My life was being pulled down into a tornado, a gathering storm. I had managed pretty well, I’d always thought. But what I felt coming toward me was utterly unfamiliar, and I was too young to understand that my husband’s irrational behavior had nothing to do with me, that he was in the grip of a monstrous obsession of which not even he was conscious. I had never felt such confusion and fear. What was I to do now?
6
H aroon 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
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