#memsahib

[zero-zoxx-international]

Hör auf dein Herz, Memsalb (Listen to Your Heart, Memsalb), 2003 by J.G.Wind

[zero-zoxx-international]

Dann ist die Ewigkeit (III), Then is Forever (III), Page 1, 2003 by J.G.Wind - Photo negative from "Die Kryptischen Texte" by Zero Zoxx (Archiv des Hauses Söderblom, Bölta) - This page is part of ZZI's old Pilchowski Project (2003)

[sadiasohani]

Memsahib | Colonized

“You… I’m sorry, what?”

Suri shrugged again.

“I think everyone’s beautiful and should feel that way.” Ahmed continued staring at her. “Close your mouth, uncle, it’s unattractive,” she grinned at him. He shut his mouth with a snap. “Look, its not hard. Allah fashioned me this way. He fashioned all of us a certain way. We are souls, with bodies gifted to us to house and protect our spirits. Can you think of anything more arrogant than to hate such a precious present?” She gazed at Ahmed earnestly, and shook her head. “I am blessed to have been given this body, this face. I take care of it. It’s not something I think about, just what I feel. So I can accept it and move on and think about more important things. I love the beauty that shines out of everyone else too.”

“So you think I’m handsome then?” Ahmed grinned. She rolled her eyes. 

“Yes, you dope, I find you beautiful. I told you, everyone is beautiful.” 

“Yessss…” he leaned forward agreeably, and arched a brow. “But I’m especially beautiful, yes?”

“Actually, I find Humza more attractive,” she said dreamily. “He’s insanely beautiful. Have you seen his eyes?”

Ahmed sat up indignantly. “More beautiful than me?” 

“You’re not really my type.” 

He settled back in his chair and raked a hand through his curls.

“Oh please. There’s no such thing as types. There’s just chemistry, timing, commitment, and love follows. And whenever you care for and love someone, they seem even more beautiful to you.” 

Suri nodded her head, her eyes suddenly serious. “I agree with you, actually. But knowing something conceptually doesn’t translate very easily to carrying it out, does it? My mother taught me the importance of self-love, but, do you know… well, I came across a basket of old photo albums in Nani Jaan’s wardrobe. I found a stack of photos with Mum with Boro Mama and Choto Mama, Nana and Nani… Mum was probably a teenager – all of her photos had been marked out.” Ahmed was leaning forward, watching Suri very intensely. He raised a brow questioningly when she paused. “The face was scratched over by a black ink pen. I showed them to Nani Jaan, and she just sighed and explained that Mum had done that herself. On a particularly bad day, when her aunts had despaired of her dark skin, how unfortunate it was that Nani’s sons were fair and her daughter dark, how sad it was that my mom’s nose was so big, such stupid, inane things…” Suri trailed away, staring at the tiled floor. She turned enormous eyes on Ahmed, a gaze so heavy with thoughts, questions, emotions, ebony intensity, that he shuddered with their strength. “Do you ever find yourself hating and loving in equal measure, Ahmed?” He did not answer, continuing to watch her closely. “Sometimes I am terrified of the intensity of my emotions. I want so badly to hate my own great aunts, for what they did to my mom. But they’re family, and I know they had no idea of the consequences – they were raised to be wealthy, insipid, vapid beings – and here I go being judgmental again.” She sighed. 

“It’s terrifically hard to believe,” Ahmed said quietly, “considering your mother is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.” 

“THE most beautiful,” Suri corrected absently, her mind elsewhere. “Dark skin?! Seriously? Don’t people realize they’re simply colonizing themselves when they obsess over skin color?” 

“That’s easier for you to say and live with,” Ahmed said carefully. “Considering that you have the privilege of fair skin.”

“I don’t, though,” Suri frowned. She shoved her sleeves up to show him her forearms. “It’s not very white, it’s not dark either, it’s just average, just medium brown.” 

Ahmed could not answer for a moment. He could not explain it, but there was something – she rarely displayed her skin. He could not recall seeing her forearms before, and they were anything but “medium brown,” anything but average. Slender and sandy gold, stacked with woven and leather bracelets on her left hand, curving black ink scrolling up the side and peeking out from beneath the bracelets, metal rings glittering on slim fingers… there was something incredibly sensual about the way she held her arms out to him, wrists up, palms fisted. Vulnerability in the deep blue veins spider-webbing beneath the thin skin of her wrists, and power and strength emanating from loosely curled fists.

“I think you and I both know that that’s not true,” he said quietly, and slowly lifted his eyes to meet hers. “I know how you feel. I understand that the pain you feel is on behalf of others, your mother, maybe friends, who’ve had to suffer from society’s expectations of beauty. I understand your frustration with how deeply entrenched colonial wounds are – how scars have not yet had the chance to form because the wounds still fester. I get it. But Memsahib, you can’t waltz in here with your revolutionary ideas without understanding the context of our society. This place, this world… you’re new to it. But it is old, and it is powerful, and it is fucked up and it is beautiful. It’s complicated, and there’s no simple answer to anything. And everything is intricately tied together, and you can start trying to figure something out, but worrying at one thread, attempting to separate it from the others so you can organize these issues and tackle them clearly is impossible, because with every thread you pull at, you’re lead to a terribly tangled knot and a million more threads. It’s not that simple.” 

Suri looked at him unflinchingly. 

“So teach me.” 

Ahmed scoffed. “I can’t just teach – “ 

“Please, Ahmed? Show me your world. I want to learn. I’m begging you. Just… just show me. Please.” 

Ahmed stared at her, his brows lowering slowly into a thunderous scowl. She stared heavily at him, the sort of stare that would set a lesser man up in flames. Finally, after a very long moment, he threw up his hands with a groan. 

“Fine, damnit! Goddamnit, I’m going to regret this, I know it.”

“No you won’t!” Suri sparkled, the biggest smile breaking across her face. She radiated sunshine and joy. “You’re the literal best, Ahmed, this is going to be fun, just you wait!”

“Yeah,” he scoffed, surly. “Loads of fun.” He held up a finger. “We’re doing this my way, however. If I’m responsible for your education, I’m also responsible for your safety. So you’re going to listen to everything I say, no matter how much you hate following directions.” 

Suri nodded vigorously, wispy curls swirling about her face. “You got it, uncle.” 

“You’re a filthy liar,” he sighed. “But I do appreciate it. 

She laughed.

“We’re going to get along really well, Ahmed. I can foresee it.”

[sadiasohani]

Memsahib | Just Friends

Snow was falling in flurries, but Ahmed didn’t mind. After years of sweltering, tropical Bengal summers and mild-tempered winters, Boston’s savage winters were a welcome change. Ahmed was like that. Always a man intrigued by extremes. That was how he found his equilibrium – leaping between extremes, diving headfirst, immersed. 

He’d faced brutal winters before, during those undergraduate years in London. It rarely snowed in London, but the cold bit bone-deep, whistled through fabric fibers and muscle fibers. He recalled cup after cup of steaming tea, studying for finals by his aunt’s fireplace. He would escape his shoddy apartment to stay with his Laila Khala every winter. She was a working woman, a psychologist who worked with inner city orphans, with four young children of her own. Mamun Khalu worked long hours, so Ahmed was a welcome male presence. For Laila Khala’s hospitality and phenomenal cooking, not to mention functioning household heating, Ahmed was happy to babysit his cousins, take out the trash, and help out around the house. He hadn’t thought of London in a very long time, but he did miss it. 

Boston’s winter was different. Boston’s winter was harsh, and the cold knifed through every cell, knifed through and lodged itself deep in his core. But there was a beauty to it, a beauty in the quiet stillness, the frantic flurrying, the white purity. The ice that glassed over everything. The frosted layers of gingerbread houses. The metallic, mirrored lakes. The solitariness. He was alone, totally and completely alone, and the blanketing snow provided a silence to the raging voices around his mind and heart. It provided pure, icy air to breathe. To think. To grow.

He dug into his pocket with a gloved hand and pulled out his keys. Fumbling, he clumsily fit the key into his lock, and ineffectually tried to stomp the snow off his boots before entering the apartment complex. He climbed the stairs to the third floor, tucking his gloves into his pockets. On the third floor, he turned to the door on his right, pausing a moment to glance out the window in the hall. The branches of the tree right outside were a brittle sort of elegant, icicles dripping like a jeweled dress, reflecting the soft glow of the streetlamp. It was not yet dark, the sky a vast silvery grey mirror, but the streetlamps were lit early by this time of year.

He entered his kitchen and stopped short. A very small, very familiar, very stylish someone was sitting at his kitchen table. He stared at her wordlessly. She stood up slowly, the slide of her chair across the tile unnaturally shrill. She bit her lip and waited for him to speak, but he continued to watch her, unable to think of anything to say. His throat felt closed off, his brain fuzzed.

“Salaam,” she said nervously.

“Alaikum as-salaam,” he answered very quietly. “How did you get in here?”

She smiled then, as if enjoying a private joke.

“I told your landlady I was your fiancée.” He stared at her, eyes narrowed, and her smile faltered. After another long moment of silence, she asked softly, “Can’t we talk?”

He nodded curtly, motioning for her to sit down again. His whole body was screaming at her proximity. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to handle this. For every other woman, his mind and disinterested heart were strong enough to prioritize adab. He could control all the reactions of his nafs. But she was a fucking vixen, even when she sat here in an oversized emerald sweater and dark skinny jeans and scuffed boots, her hair a mess of curls pushed away from her face, not even trying to be seductive. She’d thrown her black trench and crimson beanie over another chair, already making herself at home, and there was a pot of tea steeping on the table. He shrugged off his wool coat, and carefully seated himself as far away from her as he could, catty-corner at the table. The hypotenuse was always the longest distance, he reasoned. He glanced up to catch her eyes on him, those heavy, starry eyes he remembered. Heavy and warm, resting on him, absorbing him, and he was terrified. He glanced away and pulled his beanie off.

“You cut your hair!” she accused. He looked up in surprise, unwillingly hurt at the tone of her voice. Sure, it was probably a tousled mess, but she didn’t have to sound like that.

“Don’t you like it?” he cocked a brow, rumpling it further. It was probably sticking up every which way at this point. He was reminded suddenly of Jameel, with a jolt of affection. She smiled, and this time the vixen came out in the smile.

“I like it a lot,” she answered, leaning back in the chair. As if also trying to get distance from him. “Your hair looks really sexy pushed back,” she flipped her hair playfully, quoting Mean Girls.

“My hair looks sexy no matter what,” he narrowed his eyes at her, and she burst out laughing.

“God, finally. There’s that characteristic over-bloated ego I was looking for.” He glanced away. It was hard to watch her laugh. It made him want to do too many things, dangerous things. She cleared her throat. “It was surprisingly easy to track you down, you know. Though I can’t believe you’d come to Boston, move to Boston, and not tell me. What are you doing here?” 

He looked up at her finally. “I go to school here. Harvard Law. Got a scholarship, so Baba had no choice but to let me leave his company and come here.” Suri stared at him.

“You’re in law school. At Harvard. On scholarship?! How??” 

“I’m smart, shorty,” Ahmed frowned. “You always act so surprised.”

“Because I am always surprised,” She smiled at him, and he shook his head, biting his lip to contain his smile. She lit up a room. She always lit up a room. He hated her. “But really, how have you made this happen?”

“Baba,” he said simply. “Once I got into Harvard, I drew up my business plan for him. I planned it out the way you advised me to – that I would work in the States, or the UK for awhile to pay off my debt and obtain experience, and begin to work pro bono until I was financially stable enough to commit more time to human rights organizations. Once he realized that I was willing to compromise, and that my goal was to work towards the United Nations, and after he saw my LSAT scores, he decided to invest in me and finance my education. It’s a pretty huge deal, and sometimes I wonder whether he’s doing it because he believes in me, or if he wants to say he has a son with a Harvard degree, but it’s a futile line of reasoning, isn’t it?”

He glanced towards her. She was gazing at him, an enigmatic smile playing about her rosy lips. Her eyes, soft brown, were sparkling, and a curl wisped into her face, which she blew away casually. Even when he frowned at her, she refused to glance away. 

“What?” he asked. “Why are you looking at me like that? Why are you smiling so much, and… and… sparkling, why are you sparkling?” 

“I’m happy, Ahmed,” she smiled wider. “I’m happy when I’m with you. My heart feels light, and everything feels warm, even though I’m frozen alive. Is that so wrong? Can’t friends feel that way?”

He looked at her a long, long moment. Her smile faded away, but her eyes held his gaze, the flames he remembered flashing deep within the dark, starry depths.

“Friends?” he asked quietly. “Is that what we are?”

“I don’t know,” she answered seriously. “I wish we could be. But I still haven’t removed this. I don’t want to.” He looked up to see her raising her left hand, a star glittering off her ring finger. His breath caught and he stared at her, and her eyes were glossy. Every nerve inside him was screaming at him. “It wasn’t my decision to turn you away, Ahmed,” she said, very quietly. “It was yours this time. You pushed me away. I won’t pretend that I see you as my friend.”

[sadiasohani]

Memsahib | Humza

“So, Suraiya. You know the depths of my heart. I think you owe me an answer now.”

She sighed gustily. “Fine. Shoot. My heart isn’t terribly mysterious, so I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“You know as well as I do that’s not true,” Humza frowned. “You’re the most mysterious person I know. You’re so genuine and sincere, it’s really refreshing, but I barely know anything about you. I haven’t found a way to figure you out yet.” He leaned forward, surveying her curiously. She leaned backward, averting her eyes, disconcerted, and glanced around the café. This always happened to her. Men whose hearts really belonged elsewhere always found her a source of fascination. She was very exhausted of being a source of fascination. It used to flatter her until she realized, after one heartbreak too many, that playing that game just made it easier for people to try to crack her code quickly and move on.

“What’s your question?” 

Humza settled back, still watching her closely. “What happened before I came to pick you up? You were really upset. Keno? Ki holo?”

“First, can you tell me about your father? What is he like?”

Humza frowned at her, but seemed to be accepting her roundabout answers and pointed questions at this point. His frown morphed into a smile as he thought of his father. “Abbuji… I will never truly appreciate Abbuji the way he deserves. He’s a very sweet, soft-spoken and gentle man. He’s very introverted, and an artist. He’s a poet and a musician, though he’s never been ambitious enough to make a living off his talents. He’s more so concerned with making a life. Ammu died when I was quite young, and my Nani raised me with Abbuji. He works as a clerk in a government office, but he’s always provided food and stability. Not very religious, traditionally speaking, but his gentleness and endless kindness – Suri, he’s a saint. Ammu’s tragedy should have messed both of us up, but something about the peaceful way he views life and death and this world kept him sane and helped him raise me to be pretty well-adjusted. He has no desire for wealth or material things, beyond survival, so he really never understood why I would wait for a woman who pushed me to work so hard to acquire wealth to provide for her – no offense, but his opinion of Zara isn’t the highest. He does, however, as an artist and a romantic, fully understand why I would wait on a woman.”

Humza shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s just really wonderful. There are plenty of problems, of course, but they’re so minor, and he’s such a good man. I can never live up to him, or repay him, especially because he is SO inordinately proud of me. I don’t even know what I’ve accomplished for him to be proud of,” he said wonderingly, truly baffled. “But he shows me SO much love. He can be a difficult man to read, he doesn’t talk too too much. But it’s in his actions, it’s in the music he plays me, the gentle way he looks at me, the mercy in his voice, the way he makes me tea and sets out a newspaper beside him every morning so we can sit together before work. Sometimes I get frustrated that he’s not more social, more ambitious, more challenging. He has certain infuriating qualities, but I could never complain, because his dil, his adab, his good qualities massively outweigh all else.” He smiled serenely.

There was a deep achiness somewhere behind Suri’s heart, like monsoon floods were stopping up her arteries. The veins in her body, just like the Jamuna, Padma, and Meghna rivers of Bengal, were carving new pathways throughout her inner soul. 

“Humza, that’s so beautiful. I hope I meet him one day.” She paused. “You don’t hear people speak so radiantly of their fathers very often, you know? That’s very… moving.” Humza looked at her and laughed. In that instant, Suri thought she would have loved nothing more than to make Humza laugh a lifetime of sunshine jasmine laughs. This was a friendship worth keeping – he would never be a lover, but he could always be a brother. 

“Suraiya, are you crying?”

“No,” she scrunched her nose at him. 

“Don’t stop on my account,” he smiled. “I’m touched by how touched you are. Don’t hide your emotions – too many people do that. Your feelings are the best thing about you.” She widened her eyes at him, allowing a single tear to flow down each cheek, and cheerfully wiped them away when his smile broadened. 

“I don’t know, Humza,” she sighed then, twisting her lips. “I wish I could say the same about my father. I think he has the biggest heart of any man I’ve met. But at the same time… I’m not so sure that his bad qualities are outweighed much by the good. Sometimes I’m afraid he’s 50/50 – 50 percent an incredible man, especially to outsiders. But as a father and a husband…” her voice trailed off. She was unwilling to say anything negative about Baba in front of an outsider. But the monsoon floods within her were welling up again, swelling over, and cyclone winds were whipping the deep waters as she remembered. 

“Aiiiiiie, is that Ahmed?” Humza sat up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Ahmed!” he called out eagerly. 

“Ugh,” Suraiya groaned, scrubbing furiously at her eyes. “My day is drawing to a magnificent end. What’s he doing here?” Humza laughed.

“He likes you a lot, you know. He really respects you.” 

“Doesn’t seem like it.” Suri scrunched her nose. “Do you think he’d be nicer to me if he didn’t like me? More polite?” Humza smiled and reached out to brush a few wet curls away from her damp cheek. She glanced at him quickly, too surprised at the touch of his skin on hers.

“Are you two on a date?” Ahmed’s voice loomed crankily from above. Humza’s hand dropped, and Suraiya jumped.

“No.” They said in unison. Ahmed was standing in front of them, watching them suspiciously. Suri hastily wiped at her damp cheeks. 

“Bosho, dosto,” Humza reached an arm out amiably. Ahmed flopped into the seat across Humza without further encouragement. He stretched back and sighed gustily. “What’s up, bhai?”

“Dadi and Ammi sent me on another damn blind date,” he grumped. “These are all disasters. How did we all end up in this same boat?” he glanced around at the two of them, eyes stormy. Humza watched him in serene amusement, and Suri widened her eyes, trying to will the redness and puffiness away. “Hey,” he snapped at her suddenly. She jumped. “Are you crying? Why are you crying?” he demanded.

“You can’t just make someone tell you why they’ve been crying, asshole,” Suri told him reasonably. “You have to ask nicely if you really want to know.”

“Well, I don’t want to know. Just… stop,” he narrowed his eyes scathingly at her, and promptly buried his face in his arms. “Women and their damn emotions.”

* * *

“I don’t really get it,” Ahmed mused. “Why did you dislike me so much when we met? I know why I didn’t like you, but you don’t seem the type to dislike someone so intensely.” He frowned. “You got on with Humza just fine, right from the beginning.” 

Suri rolled her eyes.

“I didn’t like you for the same reason you didn’t like me, you dummy. I considered you a judgmental and arrogant ass. And I get along with Humza because he’s the complete opposite of you – he doesn’t judge anybody.”

“I never considered you a judgmental and arrogant ass!” Ahmed said in astonishment. “I thought you were a prissy, pretentious, moody and ungrateful American princess, judging…” he trailed off. “I considered you a judgmental, arrogant ass,” he nodded. 

Suri shrugged. “I don’t really blame you. You saw what most people don’t. I think you and I are oddly similar.” 

Ahmed leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “You know, shorty, you’re not that bad.”

“What? What’s that? Is that a truce? A flag of friendship you’re waving there?”

“This is just friendship though, okay? Understood? This isn’t going to work if you get attached to me,” Ahmed warned. Suri raised a brow and gave him a quick once-over scathingly. 

“Not a problem on my end, trust me. You're too scrawny; I always date tall, strong boys.” She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and shrugged. “I’m not the slightest bit attracted to you.” He sat up and looked at her with interest. 

“How many boys have you dated?”

Suri grinned. “There was an Irish boy, then an Indian boy… another white boy, then a black boy, a Palestinian boy, so beautiful… a mixed Pakistani and Indian boy – he was so cute – “

“Good God,” Ahmed rubbed his scruffy jaw.  “You don’t really give off that vibe, you seem too straight-laced and proper.” 

“Yes well, you really don’t know me at all.” Suri looked away, stirring her full cup of coffee, eyes restlessly wandering the café. She didn’t really like to talk about her past. 

Ahmed settled back in his chair and did not answer, eyes heavy and curious on the girl before him.

[sadiasohani]

Memsahib | Memsahib

“You should buy her a book,” Ahmed raised his brows proddingly. “As a nice-to-meet-you gift.”

“That’s an excellent idea!” Reza enthused. He laid a hand on Ahmed’s shoulder in gratitude, then rose to head to the bookstacks. Ahmed followed, but veered into a different section. He knew exactly what he was looking for. “I think I found a good one,” Reza wandered into Ahmed’s aisle a few minutes later. Ahmed looked at him questioningly. His older brother handed him a book – “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, by Edward FitzGerald. I think it sounds like something she’d like, right?” 

Ahmed pulled the book out of Reza’s outsretched hands and gazed at his brother pityingly. Reza looked at him earnestly, sweetly, his grey eyes wide and innocent and kind. Sometimes Ahmed wondered how the two of them were even related.

“Bhaiya. You can’t give this to her. She’ll rip you apart.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is a classical Persian collection of poetry translated by a white man who totally botched all the subtleties and beauty of the original. Suraiya would hate this.” 

“Oh…” Reza looked only slightly crestfallen. “It’s okay, I picked another one.” He held out another volume. It was a dry-looking history of Gandhi. “She said she wants to learn about her roots.” Ahmed took the book with a sigh, and shelved both.

“Why on earth should she learn about India? Everyone learns about India. She wants to learn about Bangladesh. Give her this.” 

Reza took the book Ahmed held out to him. It was his favorite collection of Rabindranath Tagore’s poetry. This volume of Gitanjali was extremely special – it had scans of the Nobel Laureate’s original handwritten, hand edited draft in Bangla on the left page, and the English translation on the right. It was a poor translation, as all translations were, and the shimmering, beautiful subtleties of the Bangla language were completely trampled by the coarse English language, but it was better than nothing. The Memsahib would be able to sift through the rough-hewn English and pull the complexities and layers of meanings of the Bengali ideas, the Bengali emotions, the Bengali imagery. She would understand. Besides, she’d grown up with English poetry. Maybe she found a beauty in that language that was hidden to him. 

Reza glanced up at Ahmed. “I mean, I guess I’m not really sure of the difference, it’s all poetry and history to me. But you’re probably better at this than I am. Sure, let’s get this.” 

Ahmed took it back from Reza, and bit back a sigh. Reza never quite understood the romance of culture, the beauty of literature. He was a doctor through and through, practical and grounded and rooted in science. He was pure hearted and simple, amusing and shy, innocent and optimistic, naïve and logical. In so many ways, he was totally alien to Ahmed.

“I’ll buy it bhaiya, so I can contribute towards you finding your potential soulmate, inshaAllah,” he winked. Reza grinned.

“I’ll pray to that, little brother.” 

*** 

“Memsahib!”

Suri was standing by the curb, waiting for Driver Sahib. She glanced towards the voice, peering into the hazy sun. A face she wasn’t particularly thrilled to see materialized before her. She would rather have seen the brother.

“Memsahib, wait.”

“Why do you call me that?” Suri countered, crossing her arms. Ahmed raised his brows.

“Memsahib? Because it’s what our ancestors called the British ladies during the reign of the British Raj. Madam Sahib became Ma’am Sahib became Memsahib. And you speak in such a Western accent, you walk with such a Western attitude, you dress with Western grace, you’re practically a Memsahib yourself.” He grinned patronizingly. “It’s cute.” 

Suri narrowed her eyes at him. 

“I find it offensive.”

Ahmed blew his breath out dramatically. 

“Memsahib, you take everything too seriously. Trust me, I understand history, cultural appropriation, colonization, racism, Orientalism, all of that. If you don’t want me to call you memsahib, I won’t. But – if you criticize and analyze so heavily, that pretty little brain of yours will explode right out of that pretty little head. Loosen the fuck up.” 

Suri twisted her lips. “What do you want from me, Ahmed?” He watched her a moment longer, trying to gauge her glassy gaze. He wondered if she’d absorbed any of his words at all. Likely not, prim little voluntourist American princess. 

“Reza the Romantic sends a present,” he announced grandly, and handed her a glossy brown paper bag. 

“Already? But we’ve only just met!” She looked worried, and didn’t take it. “Does this mean anything?” 

“Just that he’s friendly and generous,” Ahmed frowned at her. He shook the bag. “Stop taking everything so seriously, Memsahib, this is a country of gift-givers and generosity and hospitality and kindness. It’s Reza’s cultural duty. Think of it as a Welcome to Bangladesh gift if you’d rather not think of it as a You’re Really Pretty gift. Take it, goddamnit, I look like an idiot being rejected on the street.” 

Suri cocked a brow in amusement, and took the bag. She looked inside, and looked up immediately with eyes big as saucers.

[sadiasohani]

Memsahib | Love

Suri was not quite sure she understood what Love was. She had an idea of what love was, but Love was a different matter. Her parents’ marriage was not one of Love, she didn’t think, but one of love. And for a long time, she had hated it. She had been 6 years old when she’d asked out loud, “Mama, do you love Baba?” Mama had smiled at her, that sparkly smile, tinged with a secret.

“I love YOU, my shona jaan, and your bhaiya.” She’d hugged Suri tight, and turned away before Suri could protest, “That’s not what I asked, Mama!”

She’d been twelve years old when Baba had come home with a bouquet of red roses and a beautiful heart shaped cake on Valentine’s Day. The cake, chocolate and strawberry, with a white icing piped message: Happy Valentine’s Day, Suraiya.

“For my ladies,” Baba had announced grandly, handing the bouquet and the cake to his daughter. Mama had clapped happily, but Suri glanced around in bafflement. She set the cake down, the bouquet of red roses beside it.

“Baba,” she said patiently. “Valentine’s Day is for the woman you love.”

“Yes!” he smiled. “My baby girl. I brought you flowers!” 

“No, Baba,” Suri frowned. “You were supposed to bring the cake and flowers for Mama.”

“It’s okay,” Mama had interjected quickly, staving off the Awkwardness. The Awkwardness always descended when Suri asked questions like this, point blank, honest questions. Questions about the Things We Didn’t Discuss. Not In Public, Not Ever. “We’re Muslim, Suri. Just like Mother’s Day for us is everyday, so is Valentine’s Day. Your Baba brought these for all of us, for the family he loves. We don’t do it the American way.”

Suri had turned away, and sat upstairs with her journal, thinking long and hard about this. She hadn’t minded Mama’s explanation – she liked it, actually. What bothered her was the reminder of how difficult it was for her parents to show affection to one another. Why she was always the intermediary. It seemed obvious that her parents cared for one another. Why was everything so circuitous? Why was she the river current, carrying the secret candles of affection, set with secret lily flowers, floated from her Mama on one bank, to her Baba on the other bank, and back? Why did she carry the message of love? She knew her parents shared a quiet love, a love that could not be spoken, that was spoken in actions. She wasn’t so sure she wanted this sort of love though. She had this sort of love for everyone in her life. She dreamed instead of a great Love, a magical, all powerful, singular sort of Love. At age 12, she still had hope it existed. 

That was a few months before the Dark Times. The Times that she lost all hope of a great Love. The Times that made her realize that she would never trust a man, that she would never be vulnerable, that she would never Love or Hope. That she would never marry, that she could rely only on herself alone. The Times that led to the first time she built a wall around her heart.

[sadiasohani]

Memsahib | Bride

Tehseen zipped up the back of Suraiya’s bodice piece, letting her hand rest a moment longer on her daughter’s slender waist. She remembered a time when her waist had been that small. No flesh. Hard rib-cage, supple oblique muscles, strong crescent hipbones… the body of youth. She thought longingly back to a time when she had been satisfied with her own body, and realized suddenly, joltingly, that she could not remember a time when she had. Never a time when she had gazed happily into a mirror. The thought settled in her throat, descended down into her lungs, clambered into her heart, unsettling, unsatisfactory. She wondered what Suri saw in the mirror. If she felt the same as Tehseen. If she, too, had grown up forever dissatisfied with everything she was. The thought horrified her.

Suri held her arms out, and twirled. The jeweled bodice of the gown clung tightly but tastefully to her torso, elegantly embroidered from her waist up to her slim brown throat, along her arms down to her wrists. The skirted part flared out in silvery grey ruffled fabric, like flowing liquefied smoke, wisping solidified moonlight.

“You look like a bride,” Tehseen smiled proudly. “Go show your Nani and Nana.” 

“I’m not supposed to look like the bride,” Suri frowned. “That’s the bride’s job.” 

“Yes,” Tehseen answered unsympathetically. “But we have to make every young man and his parents want to see you as his bride one day. This is a teaser for your own big day.” 

Suri rolled her eyes.