Read Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel Online
Authors: Samina Ali
Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel (3 page)
How could I have faith in any of them?
PEEKING OUT AGAIN, I could see the women were now standing by the edge of the living room, slipping on their sandals. The little boy had cried himself to sleep and lay limp in his mother’s arms, head dangling. He looked dead. Most likely typhoid or dysentery. Poor, innocent child.
The women straightened their burkhas, pulling the heavy net veil over their faces, and brought their right hands close to their noses and lips to salaam the
alim.
The
alim
salaamed back and I wondered how he had seen them make the gesture. He then began to rock, his hands
folded under his crossed legs. The three walked across the courtyard to where Noor stood by the door, waiting to let them out. As they rounded the well, the doves flew away. Silently. When they came to Noor, each woman kissed her hand. The old woman ran her fingers through the child’s hair, then shut the door behind them.
alim.
The
alim
salaamed back and I wondered how he had seen them make the gesture. He then began to rock, his hands
folded under his crossed legs. The three walked across the courtyard to where Noor stood by the door, waiting to let them out. As they rounded the well, the doves flew away. Silently. When they came to Noor, each woman kissed her hand. The old woman ran her fingers through the child’s hair, then shut the door behind them.
The mystic continued to rock, his lips moving quickly as he muttered, his white beard reaching his collarbone. His blank eyes wandered around the room, but mostly they were rolled up, as though digging their way back inside his skull. He wore white and, because his hand was shoved beneath his leg, the kurta’s sleeve curled back and revealed a watch on his left wrist.
Noor leaned over his ear and whispered something. He nodded, but continued his silent chant. She kissed his forehead. He rocked. She turned his wrist and read the time. He placed it back under his foot. She smoothed out the fabric, covering the watch. Then she whispered something more. He nodded again. She now headed toward our room and I retreated.
“She’s coming,” I said.
Abu Uncle and Amme both rose.
“The
alim
’s very good,” Abu Uncle said. “So don’t be scared. Remember, you’ve been through this a dozen times before.” He took a comb out from his side pocket and began combing, one palm patting down the heavier strands as the teeth passed through.
alim
’s very good,” Abu Uncle said. “So don’t be scared. Remember, you’ve been through this a dozen times before.” He took a comb out from his side pocket and began combing, one palm patting down the heavier strands as the teeth passed through.
“I’m not worried,” I said. “Are you sure he doesn’t charge?”
Noor’s footsteps approached from behind.
“Well,” he said, hesitating. “It’s customary to give him a donation. He doesn’t have a flat fee. People just give him what they think is necessary. The rich give more, the poor less.” He put the comb away.
“What if we don’t give him anything?”
“Ar’re!”
He was surprised, even offended, as though he had cut himself a deal with the
alim.
A commission he would receive from our sale. Abu Uncle had done things like that in the past. “He’s got to run this house,” he said. “You can’t just take his advice and leave. It doesn’t look good.”
He was surprised, even offended, as though he had cut himself a deal with the
alim.
A commission he would receive from our sale. Abu Uncle had done things like that in the past. “He’s got to run this house,” he said. “You can’t just take his advice and leave. It doesn’t look good.”
“But I thought you said he’s free?”
“He is.”
Amme clucked. “What can we do now?” she asked, shaking her head. She looked disappointed in me. Then she sighed and said more tenderly, “Don’t be worried about money, Layla. What matters is that he cures you. My money is not worth more than your well-being.”
Money, as far as I could see, was all Amme had left, just dollars and the little freedom they offered her. Hearing her say this, I felt guilty and ashamed about what I had done in Minneapolis, and how it was causing my mother such misery. If Abu Uncle wasn’t in the room, I would have confessed everything to her right then and willingly accepted her judgment of me. But he was there, as someone always seemed to be in India. Hardly any privacy. So I had no time to tell Amme the truth.
Noor pulled open the curtain, and I felt her against my back. For a moment, I didn’t move. What if we just left? I wondered. If the
alim
was a fake, as I imagined him to be, then why spend the money when I already knew what ailed me? And, if by chance, he was authentic, why take the risk that he might detect the truth and give me away?
alim
was a fake, as I imagined him to be, then why spend the money when I already knew what ailed me? And, if by chance, he was authentic, why take the risk that he might detect the truth and give me away?
“Follow me,” Noor said, talking over my shoulder. She placed her veiny hand on my waist to push me aside, but I resisted.
“Layla,” Amme said, “move away and let Noor in. Why are you being so rude? She’ll think I didn’t raise you properly.”
I didn’t budge.
Amme gripped my arm and pulled me aside. Abu Uncle walked out. My mother followed.
“Amme,” I called.
“Stop being such a child, Layla,” she said.
“I’m no longer a child, Amme.”
She stopped and looked strangely at me, the chador making her body formless and unrecognizable.
“If you have something to tell me, child, tell me now,” she whispered. “I have been wondering. But I’ve been waiting for you to tell me yourself.”
Amme always knew when I kept something hidden.
“Layla, what is it?” she asked.
She was shorter than me, and though enveloped in that monstrous chador, the way her eyes stared up at mine, she seemed entirely exposed. Her shoulders had tensed as she prepared herself to hear my perverse confession. It took all her strength.
In my family, the only things revealed and discussed were those things that didn’t matter. This way, none of us got hurt by what another did. We hadn’t always lived like this. It had only become this way in the past ten years, since Dad took on a second wife and Amme finally came out of the bedroom, skinnier, dried out, and no longer able to endure losing faith.
“Apa,” Abu Uncle called. “The
alim
is waiting.”
alim
is waiting.”
“Do you think I’m possessed, Amme?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I think there must be something over you. Otherwise you wouldn’t behave the way you do.”
“Apa,” my uncle said again, extending his hand to her.
I pressed the veil against my face. The polyester smelled of sweat.
“Chalu,”
I said to Amme, let’s go. We walked in a single line, Abu Uncle, Amme, me, then Noor. Light, she had said her name meant, Light. Why had she told me that? It meant nothing. None of these people could offer me anything useful now. If the
alim
wanted to slice lemons over my head, let him. If he wanted me to cover my face, hide my skin, not go out of the house, nor speak to any man other than a close relative, that was fine with me. After all, what did it matter in the end? There were many ways to harvest a woman’s body. Eventually, she must learn to liberate herself.
I said to Amme, let’s go. We walked in a single line, Abu Uncle, Amme, me, then Noor. Light, she had said her name meant, Light. Why had she told me that? It meant nothing. None of these people could offer me anything useful now. If the
alim
wanted to slice lemons over my head, let him. If he wanted me to cover my face, hide my skin, not go out of the house, nor speak to any man other than a close relative, that was fine with me. After all, what did it matter in the end? There were many ways to harvest a woman’s body. Eventually, she must learn to liberate herself.
Amme knew that. It was why, despite how hard it must have been for her, she had gathered herself together and held her breath as she waited for my confession. The truth was, I was no longer the girl others imagined me to be. I was not going to my future husband as a virgin. And the bleeding, it was not demonic. It was a dying baby. Nate’s. I had gotten pregnant. An accident, conceived in haste … or in good times. Either way, I couldn’t be caught this way now, not two days before
the wedding, not unless I wanted to be banished from my family and everything I knew. So I went on taking the pill, silently killing this life inside me.
the wedding, not unless I wanted to be banished from my family and everything I knew. So I went on taking the pill, silently killing this life inside me.
I was possessed, then, by this innocent, dying child.
HE DID HAVE blind eyes, and I could see them. He wore no glasses. A thick white film covered the entire eyeballs, and each stared off in a different direction.
Behind him, the three walls of the living room were covered almost entirely with rectangular mirrors, some older than others, but identical in dimension. Each one was the size of a poster board. All the frames were a simple two-inch-thick dull brass. The mirrors were hung in such a way as to reflect others. Mirrors inside mirrors, multiple reflections, refractions, and the original became lost, impossible to discern. Along the walls, in a few places, the turquoise paint revealed itself. Inside the mirrors, however, these bare spots were completely concealed.
Abu Uncle sat next to the
alim,
on the
takat
, while Amme and I sat on the tiled floor, facing the two men, just as I had seen the women before us do. The courtyard was behind me, and I heard the rain falling through branches and leaves, splattering on the ground. Noor stood next to her husband, her hands clutched before her, her head bowed. She was so quiet and reverent during our session that I soon forgot she was there.
alim,
on the
takat
, while Amme and I sat on the tiled floor, facing the two men, just as I had seen the women before us do. The courtyard was behind me, and I heard the rain falling through branches and leaves, splattering on the ground. Noor stood next to her husband, her hands clutched before her, her head bowed. She was so quiet and reverent during our session that I soon forgot she was there.
When I sneaked a peek at the old man, I saw inside his nose and noticed long hair reaching out to curve around each nostril. Inch-long hair also poked out from behind the low-cut kurta and from below the wide pajama bottoms. I lowered my gaze, somehow feeling I had been improper to notice these things. Segregation between women and men had that effect on me. Since I was a child, my mother had tried to teach me correct behavior and I followed her wishes when she was watching—covering my hair, hiding my legs, draping a scarf over kurtas to conceal the curve of my breasts, muffling my laughter, whispering, averting my eyes. I always knew I had to do these things because
man, as Islam said, was the weaker sex, so it was my responsibility to keep him from becoming aroused. All these precautions were taken to prevent intercourse or, as Amme would say, so I would not fall prey to a man’s desires. Naturally, then, when I encountered any man, young or old, in the theater, on the bus, passing by our car, rather than feeling chaste, I felt more desire wrapped in the chador, more aware that I was a woman, and he, simply by the fate of his being a man, wanted me. So I sometimes met their curious gaze, sometimes let them brush against me as they walked by, and sometimes even followed them with my eyes, admiring their rounded shoulders, their rigid chins, their hairy chests and forearms, their hands. From what better place to notice a man’s body than from behind a chador?
man, as Islam said, was the weaker sex, so it was my responsibility to keep him from becoming aroused. All these precautions were taken to prevent intercourse or, as Amme would say, so I would not fall prey to a man’s desires. Naturally, then, when I encountered any man, young or old, in the theater, on the bus, passing by our car, rather than feeling chaste, I felt more desire wrapped in the chador, more aware that I was a woman, and he, simply by the fate of his being a man, wanted me. So I sometimes met their curious gaze, sometimes let them brush against me as they walked by, and sometimes even followed them with my eyes, admiring their rounded shoulders, their rigid chins, their hairy chests and forearms, their hands. From what better place to notice a man’s body than from behind a chador?
“You have come about the girl,” the
alim
said to us. He kept his voice near a whisper, as though to create a confidence.
alim
said to us. He kept his voice near a whisper, as though to create a confidence.
“Yes,” Amme said. Neither of us looked directly at the
alim.
It was considered improper for men and women to look into each other’s eyes, unless they were married. “My daughter.”
alim.
It was considered improper for men and women to look into each other’s eyes, unless they were married. “My daughter.”
“What is your relationship to the man sitting next to me?” he asked.
“He is my sister’s husband.”
The old man nodded. He smelled of sweat and betel nut. “Now,” he said, “what is wrong with the girl?”
“The girl has been bleeding … like menses,” Abu Uncle said, also quietly, “but longer, much much longer. And with it, she is having bad dreams.” When the
alim
only nodded, he added, “My sister-in-law and her daughter have just arrived from America, where they live.”
alim
only nodded, he added, “My sister-in-law and her daughter have just arrived from America, where they live.”
“I see,” the
alim
said and rocked a while in silence.
alim
said and rocked a while in silence.
I saw from his thoughtful expression that he was considering tactful ways to say what he believed. His eyes hovered just above my head and I could not help but stare into them, wanting to peel away the top coating with a pair of tweezers. Would they look normal beneath? And would he then be able to see?
“
Umrika
is not the best place to raise a daughter, my sister,” he finally said to Amme.
Umrika
is not the best place to raise a daughter, my sister,” he finally said to Amme.
“What can we do? The times are such. You know how difficult it is for Muslims in India. And her father and I are very strict with her.” Amme said this to most anyone who raised doubts about her and Dad leaving their homeland.
“No matter. Children go there and get lost,” he said.
Amme shrugged.
The
alim
continued his sermon, his eyes blindly staring over our heads, watching the rain. Amme grew more annoyed and gestured angrily at Abu Uncle, pointing at various times toward the old man. She didn’t think it was necessary for my uncle to have revealed where we lived, especially since the
alim
’s reaction was predictable, and worse, despite his preaching, he would now expect more rupees from us,
dollar
rupees.
alim
continued his sermon, his eyes blindly staring over our heads, watching the rain. Amme grew more annoyed and gestured angrily at Abu Uncle, pointing at various times toward the old man. She didn’t think it was necessary for my uncle to have revealed where we lived, especially since the
alim
’s reaction was predictable, and worse, despite his preaching, he would now expect more rupees from us,
dollar
rupees.
The truth was, nothing the
alim
or anyone else might say would convince my parents to return to India. After twenty years abroad, my parents considered America their home. They may have been born and raised in India, but their present life existed there—Dad’s work, my schooling, other Indian friends. If caught in an honest moment, they would even admit that the quality of life in the U.S. was better because it was cleaner—the water, the air, the food, the streets. No religious riots. No military curfews. But they planned to retire here. Which is to say that for them, birth and death occurred in India, but not life.
alim
or anyone else might say would convince my parents to return to India. After twenty years abroad, my parents considered America their home. They may have been born and raised in India, but their present life existed there—Dad’s work, my schooling, other Indian friends. If caught in an honest moment, they would even admit that the quality of life in the U.S. was better because it was cleaner—the water, the air, the food, the streets. No religious riots. No military curfews. But they planned to retire here. Which is to say that for them, birth and death occurred in India, but not life.
My uncle shifted a few inches away from the
alim
and gestured back to Amme. He pointed at me several times then spread his palms, as if to say, “Come on, Apa, the
alim
has to know. America is the source of all Layla’s problems.”
alim
and gestured back to Amme. He pointed at me several times then spread his palms, as if to say, “Come on, Apa, the
alim
has to know. America is the source of all Layla’s problems.”
I rolled my eyes. I had faced this all my life, the way each country held a moral stance over the other. It was as though each nation had its own uniform and I wore the shirt of one, the trousers of the other, and both sides were shooting at me. Oh, the way each culture condemned and complained. India was backward and primitive, exotic. America was morally bankrupt, a cultural colonizer. But I knew this chiding was really a flirtation. For below these criticisms, the truth was that each place held allure for the other, a fascination and curiosity, an attraction
and longing. They exchanged hamburgers for chicken curry, combined Ayurvedic and modern medicine, and swapped yoga for aerobics. I had never witnessed such confused and beguiled lovers.
and longing. They exchanged hamburgers for chicken curry, combined Ayurvedic and modern medicine, and swapped yoga for aerobics. I had never witnessed such confused and beguiled lovers.
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