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,
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,
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