The Sweetness of Tears (22 page)

“Yes, Ma.”

“There will be other proposals if you decide to refuse this one.”

“Yes, Ma.”

I met Akram twice before I said yes, knowing that to do so was to lift us up out of the darkness that had descended since Abu’s death. Despite what Ma had said, it
was
like a fairy tale come true.

In those two meetings with Akram, my first impression was confirmed. So was the mystique of the fairy tale. He was charming. A veritable prince, arriving with a flourish in his American car, bestowing respectful kisses on my mother’s hand, keeping the hunger decorously out of his eyes whenever they rested, briefly, on me. Eventually, his parents and sister—newly engaged herself—were invited, officially, to receive an answer to the proposal, along with their closest relatives and ours, cousins of my mother’s and father’s who had not been able to help us as Abbas Uncle had in our time of need.
Sharbat
was served—glasses of milk, heavy with nuts and rose-syrup pink, the sweetness of the drink a traditionally coy affirmative to the question that had been posed a week before, because sweet was the taste of good news, the flavor of happiness. Akram’s mother, Sajida Auntie, took the necklace hanging from her neck and placed it around mine, sealing the pact.

A week later, our engagement was celebrated with all the fanfare one might expect when the scion of a wealthy household becomes betrothed. It was to be a short engagement, and the preparations for the wedding began immediately.

Asma’s wedding came before mine. Akram and I were a couple at all of his sister’s wedding functions, our eyes meeting across rooms crowded with guests in a way that made me feel more and more comfortable at the thought of him as my husband.

Did I love him? No. But that was not to be expected, not yet, in the format of an arranged marriage. I liked him. I enjoyed his company. I was attracted to him, mind and body. And I saw, in his eyes, that he liked me, desired me in a way that was different from what had taken my breath away when I saw it in Umar’s eyes, which had never made any claims on me, the way that Akram’s did. Of course, I thought of Umar. But only in passing. As I thought of many scenes from my childhood, most of them involving Abu, whose absence I felt keenly. But childhood was something that was slipping away, as it was meant to.

Two months later, in the celebratory days leading up to my wedding, I was daily draped in jewels and rich fabrics. Those were exciting times, for me and for Akram, who threw himself joyously into all of the ceremonies and rituals, making my mother, who he courted more vigorously than he did me, laugh and smile in a way I thought she had forgotten how to do since Abu’s death. That effort alone was enough to endear him to me.

Two days before the wedding, Sharif Muhammad Chacha, Abbas Uncle’s driver, knocked at our door. Rather than visit with his sister, Macee, in the kitchen, he asked to speak to me.

“Sharif Muhammad Chacha! You’re back from Bombay! Just in time for the wedding,” I said, hearing the sound of happiness in my own voice, which only made me happier.

But Sharif Muhammad Chacha didn’t return my smile. His face was set in stone, his eyes fixed on the pattern of the tiles on the floor, at our feet.

“Is something wrong, Sharif Muhammad Chacha?”

He shook his head, the seriousness of his face beginning to frighten me.

“Is everything all right at home? With your family?”

“Yes, Deena Bibi. My sister tells me that your mother has gone out.”

“Yes. She has gone visiting. Did you want to see her?”

“Yes. No. I want to speak to you. I wish I had been here earlier, Deena Bibi, to tell you what I have to say.”

“What is it, Sharif Muhammad Chacha? Tell me.”

“Deena Bibi. I came back from Bombay. And they told me you’re to be married. To my
sayt
’s son. To Akram Sayt.”

I nodded, not sure I wanted him to continue.

“Deena Bibi. You must not marry him.”

“What? What are you saying? Why not?”

“He—Akram Sayt—it pains me to say this, Deena Bibi. They should have told you. But my sister says they have not. This is not something I am proud of. To speak against my employer’s son. What I have to tell you, I’ve never even told to my sister, until today. If she had known before, it would have been better. My master has been good to me, and I owe him my discretion. But before I worked for him, I worked for your father, Deena Bibi. That also counts for something. And if he had been alive—your father—I would have come and spoken to him. He would not have allowed this marriage. If he’d known what I have to say. But he’s not here. And it’s my duty to tell you. Deena Bibi, Akram Sayt is not a suitable husband. For you. He—he’s not right. He’s not well. In his mind. He’s mad. He’s crazy. They sent him away. To big doctors abroad. And now he’s back. He’s better. But still— you cannot marry him, Deena Bibi. You cannot.”

I couldn’t say anything. What could I say? What could I believe? This couldn’t be true. Sharif Muhammad Chacha was wrong. He had to be. In a voice totally devoid of the happiness I’d been so conscious of moments before, hard and cold, I said, “Be careful, Sharif Muhammad Chacha. Be sure of what you’re saying.”

“Don’t ask me to explain. These are not matters that I understand. Only that he’s not well. When I realized—that they had told you nothing—I knew I had to come and tell you.”

I was silent. Standing in the ruins of a broken fairy tale. Trying to pretend that I didn’t hear what I was hearing. There were only two days left before the wedding. No. No. Sharif Muhammad Chacha was wrong. I knew the truth. I knew Akram. Nothing about him had anything to do with what this old, bearded man in front of me—only a servant, after all—was saying. It was slander. Yes, that was what it was.

“Sharif Muhammad Chacha. No. What you say isn’t true. I don’t know why you’re doing this. What you have against Abbas Uncle. Against Akram. But you’re lying. Go away. Go, now. And don’t repeat what you’ve told me. Never repeat it. If you do, I’ll tell your master. I’ll tell him what you’ve said.”

“No, Deena Bibi. Please don’t do that. I’ve come to you, risking everything. Please.”

Gentling my voice with an effort I felt in every muscle, I said, “No. I don’t know why you’ve said what you’ve said. But I won’t tell, Sharif Muhammad Chacha. Just leave. Pretend that this conversation never happened.” His skull cap crushed in his hand, giving me one last beseeching look over his shoulder, Sharif Muhammad Chacha went away.

After a long while, Macee came and stood beside me. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “My brother is not a liar, Deena Bibi. He speaks the truth. You must tell your mother what he said. Let
her
decide.”

“No! No, Macee. Leave it be.”

“But—Deena Bibi—
Beti
—you are not thinking clearly.”

“No, Macee! Don’t tell her any of this nonsense. That’s what it is. Nonsense! Some kind of misunderstanding. Leave it alone. And keep it to yourself.”

I wonder, sometimes, what might have happened if Macee had disobeyed my command. Would anything have changed? Would I have wanted anything to be different? What an impossible question to ask! The kind of question that consumes us, if we let it. What if Sharif Muhammad Chacha had never come to say what he did? Would I have later luxuriated in my innocence? It would be easier, I think, to play the victim. To see myself as some kind of Rochester, duped into a marriage I would never otherwise have consented to, to let myself feel as powerless as I would have been then. But I was never powerless, no matter how I would have liked to think of myself as so later. It would have been so convenient—to blame everyone but myself. By telling me what he did, Sharif Muhammad Chacha made me a party to all that happened. He saved me, in a way, even though he felt he’d failed at trying. If I was deceived, I had a hand in the deception. As it was, both Macee and Sharif Muhammad Chacha did as I asked—no, commanded—them to do. Both of them kept silent. Just as I did.

On my wedding day, I spent the afternoon at the beauty salon, primped, pampered, and robed, like a living doll, only to find myself unrecognizable in the mirror. At the
nikkah
ceremony, I was seated on the floor of a raised platform at the front of a room full of ladies at the
mehfil,
having already signed the relevant documents earlier in the day at home. Before the mullah took my verbal permission to represent me and my interests—through a crack in a curtain beside me, on the other side of which sat Akram, similarly seated in front of a crowd of men—Akram’s mother came and whispered in my ear, “Deena, my dear, I don’t know if anyone told you. But there are two times when Allah especially listens to the prayers of a woman. One is during her wedding ceremony and the other is during the pains of labor when she gives birth. Please, Deena, when the
nikkah
begins, please pray for Akram. For all of us. For our health and for yours. And for Akram.” Akram’s mother put her fingers gently under my chin, tilting my face up so that my eyes met hers, as they were not supposed to meet anyone’s on this day of my wedding. “Please, Deena. Don’t forget. Especially for him.”

I nodded wordlessly, suddenly frightened at the possibility that what Sharif Muhammad Chacha had said was true. Frightened at what I had already agreed to by signing the documents in the mullah’s hand.

Someone placed a copy of the Quran, open, in front of me, instructing me to keep my eyes on it, on the words of the page my eyes had fallen on, during the ceremony. Around my wrist, my mother had twisted a string of prayer beads, a
tasbeeh,
the color of dried mud, made from the sand of Karbala, where the blood of Husain and his family was shed, a somber contrast to the sparkling bangles, red and gold, that tinkled when I moved my hand. Then everyone fell silent for the exchange of words between my mullah and Akram’s—all in Arabic and therefore unintelligible to me, the groom, and most of the guests. When the solemn interaction between mullahs was done, all of the women in the community came to give their congratulations, embracing me with kisses and hugs, greeting my mother and Akram’s with cries of
mubarak
. It was too late to be frightened. I was married.
For better or for worse,
as they said in the American movies I had seen at the Capri Cinema.

From there, accompanied by a distant young cousin who played the part of the brother I didn’t have and carried a velvet-wrapped Quran carefully over my head for every step I took, my bridesmaid, who was another cousin, a young woman, recently married, and Akram’s best man, a cousin of his, ushered us to the familiar, finned American car, which was dressed, like I was, in flowers and tinsel, driven by Sharif Muhammad Chacha. He drove us to the Beach Luxury Hotel, where guests gathered for a dinner reception. There, on the stage, Akram’s mother tied an
Imam
zamin
to my arm—a silk, embroidered armband with money sewn inside, which would later be distributed as alms. Ma did the same to Akram. We exchanged rings. Guests made their way up the stage to greet us, to wish us well, and to pose for pictures.

“Ye-es. Ple-ase,” the photographer sang out in warning each time he clicked the camera, the giant, old-fashioned flash blinding me hundreds of times throughout the evening. At the end of the reception, though Akram’s mother invited Ma to come home with us and witness the ceremonies involved in welcoming me to my new home, Ma refused, saying good-bye tearfully as my bridesmaid stepped forward to quickly mop up the tears that threatened to spill out of the wells of my own eyes. She went home with the sudden abundance of loving relatives who had stepped forward when news of my engagement to the son of Abbas Ali Mubarak had circulated, the same relatives who had been especially scarce when Abu died, when we had needed them most.

When we entered the compound of Abbas Uncle’s house, there was a white goat tethered in the side garden, which Sajida Auntie, who I now had to remember to call Mummy, made me and Akram touch. It would later be slaughtered, its meat distributed to the poor, our touch casting off the evil intentions of jealous eyes. At Akram’s side, I turned and was about to enter the house when I found myself suddenly lifted up in my husband’s arms.

“Akram! What are you doing? Put her down!” his mother shrieked.

“It’s tradition, Mummy.”

“In Hollywood, maybe. Not
our
tradition!”

Abbas Uncle stood inside the doorway, next to me, when Akram finally carried me over the threshold and set me down inside of the home that would now be mine, too. “Never mind, Sajida.” He laughed. “It’s a good tradition, I think.”

We were led into the living room, filled with Akram’s closest friends and relatives, and seated on a sofa. A large tray of one-rupee coins was placed in front of me and I gathered as many as I could in both hands, to be given away for charity, to invite abundance into the lives of those who lived in this new home of mine. Everyone in the family lined up to give me jewelry, though I had been given much already. Another round of food and drink was served to the Mubarak relatives by the house servants. Akram’s cousins teased him, telling him to eat up for the strength and stamina he would need for what was still to come. Finally, my bridesmaid and Akram’s sister, Asma, now my sister-in-law, led me into the room that would be mine and his.

Every piece of new furniture was perfectly placed, polka-dotted with the red of rose petals that seemed to have drizzled down on the dresser laden with French perfumes and on the large bed, where my bridesmaid now artfully arranged me, too. The air was pregnant with the cloying, clashing scents of perfume, sandalwood, and tuberoses. When my bridesmaid and Asma opened the door to let themselves out, I heard the loud negotiations going on just outside the door—Akram’s cousins rowdily refusing him entry until he met their monetary demands. I was too nervous to be flattered by how little he haggled, by how soon he was allowed admission. He closed the door carefully behind him, bolted the lock, and turned to face me. It was past three in the morning. We were alone for the first time.