A Good Wife Read online

  Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that our parents didn’t get along. After all, the marriage had not been their choice. My mother and father were cousins, born and raised in the same tight-knit extended family in Karachi—and both sides of this family tree had decided that their marriage would strengthen the branches. The deal had been struck without any input from the prospective bride or groom.

  My parents did have their happy times, however. After the worst of their fights, harmony always settled once again. Often, as I watched my father cook one of my mother’s favourite dishes or my mother laugh warmly at my father’s jokes, I wondered why these moments slipped away so easily.

  One of the unfortunate consequences of these frequent marital skirmishes was a deep wound to our family unity. Mama and Papa each looked to their daughters for support and sympathy whenever they had a disagreement. My father had always drawn me into his camp. Bushra, the youngest, had joined me. My two middle sisters cleaved to my mother. But none of us would have chosen this type of rivalry.

  Nor did we ever understand how these lines had been drawn. All I knew was that my father had always spent more time with me than my mother had. He taught me to play cricket, to cook and to tend the little vegetable garden he so loved. When he renovated the house, he enlisted me as his apprentice. What’s more, he heralded all of my small accomplishments and predicted my future success with such passion that I couldn’t doubt it myself.

  I knew my mother loved me, and I have many happy memories of the moments we spent together. She taught me how to prepare my favourite dishes, and she spent hours showing me how to hem a dress and sew on buttons. Perhaps our happiest times were the many afternoons we worked on clothes for my baby dolls and Barbies. Yet a quiet but unbridgeable gulf separated us. Even as we moved about the kitchen, or shopped together for clothes on a weekend afternoon, we seemed to travel in concentric circles, only occasionally intersecting to occupy the same space. And when we did close the gap, it would be for unsettling reasons.

  * * *

  I stepped outside into the corridor of the apartment building, our home in the UAE before our white-stuccoed house. The long, empty hallway stretched into the distance, the high white ceiling soared above. To my four-year-old self, it felt as if the whole world were opening up before me.

  Just moments earlier I had been in the living room, my father patting me on the head and pressing a few coins into my hand.

  “Don’t worry, beta. I called Mr. Altaf at the store. He is waiting for you.”

  “Can I get chips?”

  “You can get whatever you want.”

  My mother was banging in the kitchen, her disapproval wafting in along with the percussive sounds. She did not want me going to the convenience store on the ground floor all by myself. “She’s too young, Zafar.”

  “Nonsense,” my papa said. “Samra is so smart and good. It is only one floor down. She knows the way. She can do it on her own.”

  I knew my father was right. I was his big girl, capable enough to buy cigarettes for him. And he was rewarding me with a treat—the chips of course, but better than that—a taste of independence.

  My father had called the shopkeeper to let him know I was coming. Now, I made my way along the hall. At the end, I clattered down the stairs, my footfalls making small echoes in the cavernous stairwell. The building was empty and quiet, the way it always was on Fridays, when so many of the neighbours were at the mosque or otherwise observing Jumma prayers. And then I burst into the little shop.

  A few minutes later, I was putting my fils on the counter to pay. Mr. Altaf smiled at me and told me how cute I was. He slipped me a couple of pieces of candy, as he often did. “Say hello to your papa,” he said, as I left.

  Now back in the hallway, clutching my chips, I headed to the stairwell, feeling taller than I had just fifteen minutes earlier. I knew the way home—up a short flight of steps to the next floor. Then straight to the door with the red garbage can standing outside it, like a squat sentinel.

  Just before I reached the stairs, two teenaged girls walked into the corridor.

  “Hey there,” said one, “why are you taking the stairs?”

  “I live on the second floor.”

  “Why not take the elevator?” The girl was pointing to the blue door at the end of the corridor.

  I shook my head. I sometimes took the elevator when I was with my father or mother, but it had no automatic sliding doors. Instead, there was a single metal one with a small window and a big handle at the top of my reach.

  “The door is too heavy for me,” I said, stepping again towards the stairs.

  “Don’t be silly. We’re going up too. We’ll open the door for you.” One of the girls pulled the elevator handle. They looked back at me and smiled. It seemed rude to turn down their offer. And it was a bit thrilling, this attention from two older kids.

  I walked past the girls and through the open door into the elevator. But before I could turn, I heard it: the metallic thud of the door crashing shut. I spun around and lunged at the door handle. Through the glass window I could see the girls, their mouths opening and their bodies rocking with laughter. They had tricked me and were now relishing their cleverness and daring.

  I tugged at the door handle, begging for them to let me out. But they turned from the door and disappeared from my sight. Alone in the elevator, the enormity of what was happening pressed in on me. I could push all the buttons I wanted, but I couldn’t get out of this tight metal box. I was four, all alone, and I was trapped. I began to sob.

  And then the floor started to shudder. I hadn’t pressed any buttons, but the elevator was beginning to move, slowly grinding its way up as I cried and hung on. Eventually it jerked to a halt at the top floor. But the door did not open. Whoever had called it had not waited for the elevator to arrive. I pressed 2 for my floor, and the elevator began to drop. But when it finally stopped, I couldn’t budge the door. Then the elevator began to rattle upward again.

  When the elevator stopped this time, the door opened, and a man stood before me. I recognized a friend of my father who lived on a floor above.

  “Beta, beta, what’s the matter?”

  Between sobs, I told him.

  “I’ll take you down to your papa,” he assured me. He pressed the button, and we began to move again. I was still sniffling and shaking. The man crouched down and put his arms around me. My head was pressed against his chest; the heat from his embrace was reassuring and calming. Then he pulled back from me. He moved towards me again, kissing me on the cheek before shifting his head slightly. His lips came to rest on my lips. He kissed me once. And again.

  I had felt safe and secure for an instant, but now that feeling was tipping away from me. No one had ever kissed me on the lips like that. There was something strange and unsettling about it. I could feel the tears welling up again.

  When the elevator stopped my father’s friend stood up and opened the door. I could see my papa standing beside the red bin outside our front door. I sprinted towards him.

  “Samra, what’s the matter?” my father asked as I crashed into his knees.

  The man on the elevator explained everything. Well, almost everything. There may have been words to describe what had happened, but at four I did not have any of them.

  * * *

  That episode in the elevator is one of my first memories. But in truth it was for many years just a curiosity that took up little space in my emotional universe. My father’s arms had received me back into safety. But as the years unfolded, cracks began to appear in that protective embrace. And it wasn’t just the domestic discord that made my world less steady.

  My family was at a friend’s dinner party. The place was buzzing with guests: the adults arguing about Pakistani politics, the children racing through the rooms playing hide-and-seek, their hands sticky with stolen sweets. Eleven years old, I was still young enough to throw myself into the game, and I had darted into one of the bedrooms to find a spot large eno
ugh to conceal my lanky, adult-like frame.

  Once in the room, however, I heard the soft thud of footsteps behind me. I knew it was not another child—the shadow that loomed over me was too large. My father? No, it was the host. What is he doing in here? I wondered. Before I could turn around, the man was at my back. His arm came around me, his hand pressing against my chest, his fingers fondling my breast. Frightened, I froze. In front of me was a mirror. I could see my cheeks burning red with shame and embarrassment. I wondered if I should scream. But what would I say if people rushed in? Once he let go of me, no one would believe me—and everyone would hate me for accusing a loving family man of such a thing. Before I could figure out what I should do, the man released me, and I raced back into the living room, to the security of the crowd. For the rest of the evening, I was watchful, always making sure I was surrounded by others and keeping as far away from him as possible.

  As the hour got later, people began to drift away from the party. Eventually, my family took its leave, too. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. Lying in bed that night, the man’s touch played over and over in my mind. My mother appeared at my door to say good night.

  “Mama,” I said, “can I ask you something?”

  She nodded and sat on the edge of the bed. But I couldn’t form my thoughts into a question. What did I want to know? Instead, I told her what had happened.

  When I finished, I looked up at her face. Her brow was creased, but I couldn’t decide whether she was worried or angry. We were both quiet for a few minutes.

  Then Mama sighed. “Samra,” she said, in a tone that conveyed concern but also disapproval. I felt a lump rise in my throat. Not disapproval of the man or of the incident, but disapproval of me.

  “Samra,” she said again. “You are growing up too quickly.”

  * * *

  In some ways, I suppose what my mother said had some truth in it.

  I was growing up—physically at least—at a remarkable rate. I hit puberty by the time I was ten, getting my period so early that my mother hadn’t gotten around to telling me anything about it. (If a slightly older neighbourhood friend hadn’t filled me in, as well as explained the basic mechanics of sex, I would have been taken completely by surprise.) By the time I was twelve, I was five foot eight, with full breasts and the figure of a young woman.

  Now whenever we returned to the crowded cities of Pakistan for holidays or family visits, I couldn’t walk outside without being assaulted by whistles and lascivious invitations. The streets of Ruwais were quieter and safer, but unwanted attention was aimed at me in more clandestine ways.

  When I was thirteen, my father engaged a local imam to come to the house to tutor me in the Koran. The imam was a stately older man. His white shalwar kameez and skullcap complemented his long white beard and his solemn expression. Even as he pedalled down the street to our house on his rickety bike, his demeanour was as stiff and imperial as if he were arriving on a great white stallion.

  The imam and I would sit side by side at the dining room table with the Koran open before us, as the aroma of my mother’s curries drifted in from the kitchen. Wearing a long hijab, I recited the passages that I had memorized, while the imam followed along in the text to catch any errors. Whenever I stumbled or made a mistake, he would reach over and tug my ear.

  But after a few weeks of these lessons, his hand began to fall after each tug, dropping in front of my chest. Not long after that, his hand began to brush the front of my blouse. It started to linger there for a second each time he tugged my ear. With every touch, once his hand dropped he’d pull himself up straight, his eyes focusing on the holy book before us, a smirk playing across his face. He would continue the lesson with an air of earnest piety and then take his leave.

  And then one evening, his fingers swiftly pinched my nipple. With the earlier touching, I had always stiffened and moved back as far as I could in my chair. With the pinching, I jerked upright. I wanted to slap his hand away, but he had moved so swiftly there wasn’t time.

  I decided I had had enough. As the imam rode off that evening, I went to my father and told him what was happening.

  My father’s face darkened. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will deal with this.”

  When the time rolled around for my next session, I stayed outside on the front lawn instead of waiting at the dining room table. As the imam cycled up to the house, he looked put out. “What are you doing out here?” he said as he got off his bike. “You should be ready for the lesson.”

  “My father wants to talk to you first—in private.” I couldn’t keep a small grin from my face.

  The imam disappeared into the house. I heard my father’s voice booming from inside. And then the imam reappeared. His face was red and his eyes were focused on the pavement. He scurried over to his bike, clambered on and pedalled furiously away, his white shalwar kameez flapping in the wind. It was the last I ever saw of him.

  The next year, the sports lessons I loved so much had to be abandoned as well after the teacher leaned towards me one day and suggested that we might spend some time together doing other enjoyable “activities.”

  And then came the summer I was fifteen. My whole family went to Karachi for the wedding of my father’s brother, Ali. In all, we would spend about two months there, staying with various relatives and attending a non-stop round of family celebrations. It was a wonderful time, all the cousins and aunts and uncles enjoying the lengthy family reunion. There was only one dark spot: Aunt Nasreen’s husband, Aziz.

  My sisters, my cousins and I had always found the man a bit creepy. He seemed to pay too much attention to us, to be too interested in watching the games we played or the dances we choreographed for the parties. He and my aunt lived next door to my grandfather, and he always showed up where you least expected him—outside a bedroom door or in a narrow hallway or, once, in a hospital ward.

  A few weeks into our visit, I ended up at the emergency room with dehydration. (The water in Pakistan always made my sisters and me ill.) I was lying on a gurney, hooked up to an IV, when Aunt Nasreen and Uncle Aziz appeared in the doorway. My uncle walked to the foot of the bed and slipped his hand under the sheets to touch my foot.

  “How are you doing, Samra?” he said. He had a sly smile on his face, but my aunt didn’t seem to notice anything wrong.

  I didn’t answer. I was too distracted. His hand had moved from my foot and was sliding up my leg. I pulled my knees up, trying to move my legs out of reach.

  “What’s the matter, Samra?” His voice was cloying. He moved his hand from under the sheet to pat my arm and then brush his fingers across my cheek. Perhaps it would have seemed innocent to an onlooker, but there was something sinister and insinuating in his touch.

  When my mother came by later, I told her about it. “Just cover yourself properly and stay away from him” was her advice.

  As the weeks passed, I managed to do that—until one afternoon, when my family was at Aunt Nasreen and Uncle Aziz’s house. My aunt was a school principal and teacher, and the two of them had an extensive library on the second floor.

  “Are you looking for something to read?” my uncle asked me as we all got up from the lunch table. “You should go upstairs and check out what we’ve got there.”

  I was getting a little bored with all the visiting, and the thought of losing myself in a novel was too tempting to ignore. I had just sat down with a book in one of the big upholstered chairs when my uncle appeared. He shut the door behind him.

  “Why are you closing the door?” I asked.

  “So you won’t be disturbed while you are reading.” The words were hardly out of his mouth before he disappeared behind my chair and slipped his arm around me, cupping my breast.

  I jumped up, shaking him off as I bolted from the room. For the rest of the visit, I made sure we were never alone in the same room.

  * * *

  All these incidents bothered me. But despite my mother’s concern that I w
as growing up too quickly, I resisted feeling that I was somehow to blame. I had seen women in full burkas being groped or pinched while they stood in the crowded Karachi marketplace. They had clearly not invited any advances, and neither had I. And yet, oddly, this did not make me feel in any real danger. Perhaps because I was young and hopeful and felt a certain sense of power and independence, I assumed that if I stayed on my toes in the future, I could avoid the groping and touching—or at least I could stop it in its tracks.

  Certainly, by the time Uncle Ali’s wedding was over, I was well aware of the need to make sure I was never alone with dodgy men like Uncle Aziz. And I had managed to defend myself more effectively during another incident on that same trip. One afternoon, I was at one of the local outdoor markets with my sisters and cousins. We all crowded around a jewellery vendor’s table, choosing which brightly coloured bangles we wanted to wear at the celebration. Suddenly I felt a hand press against my bottom. I whirled around to face the man who had just caressed me. Without a thought, I slapped him across the face—hard. His mouth dropped open as he raised his hand to his burning cheek. His friends burst out laughing as my sisters and cousins gasped in surprise and delight. They had felt the man’s touch too but had been too scared to do anything.

  All the way home, my sisters and cousins marvelled at my daring. And I had to admit—I was brimming with self-satisfaction. I could take care of myself.

  My mother didn’t seem so sure.

  After I told her about the incident at the dinner party, her solution had been to leave me at home whenever my family attended a social gathering with the man and his family. (Eventually, I was allowed to go to the dinner parties and picnics again, but my mother cautioned me against talking to anyone about what had happened.) Now, hearing the story of my uncle in the library, she seemed to realize that protective social isolation wasn’t realistic—and that clearly worried her. I noticed that she began to watch me with concern as I headed off on my bike or boarded a bus to the shopping mall.