A Good Wife Read online

  After we got off the phone, I found my mind moving back in time, to another new school year: grade seven. I had been so excited to return to my studies and to see classmates I hadn’t spoken with over the summer. As I entered the grassy schoolyard, two girls had approached me. At first I didn’t recognize them. Below their white school-uniform shirts, they were wearing long, dark skirts that brushed their toes. Their hair was hidden under tight hijabs. “Samra!” they called out—and I realized that I was looking at Sadia and Hazeema. The last time we were together, their hair had been uncovered, their school skirts the standard knee length.

  “Hey,” I said, “what’s going on? Why are you wearing that?”

  “Oh, you know,” said Sadia. “We’re growing up. It’s time. We want people to know that we’re good girls.”

  What was she talking about? Of course we were good girls. We worked hard at school, we did as we were told, we had never been in any kind of real trouble. Why would people think we were anything other than good girls? And what did our clothes have to do with that? And yet, watching my two friends, covered tip to toe, smiling softly at me as they spoke, sent a tiny, sharp current through my chest. I tried to shrug it off. This has nothing to do with me, I thought.

  Back in grade seven, I had rejected Sadia and Hazeema’s self-censure. I never thought of the hijab as something that made women beautiful. Or as something they wore out of love. Or because they were loved. The next morning, as I got dressed for school, I dug around in my clothes drawer and pulled out a hijab scarf. I stood before my mirror looking at it with ambivalence. I didn’t want to wear it, but Ahmed’s sweet voice kept rippling through my mind: “It’s just that I love you so much.” I loved him too, and if this made him happy, why not? I draped the scarf over my head, tucked my hair under it and pinned it beneath my chin. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I reassured myself: He only wants to take care of me.

  * * *

  I stood at the edge of the yard, watching the boys and girls standing in huddles, talking and laughing. It felt strange not to know a soul. I noticed a bench a short distance away and went to sit down. Just a few minutes later, a girl approached.

  “What’s your name?” she asked. I told her. And then, “Are you engaged?”

  I was startled. “Why?”

  “The ring on your finger.”

  I glanced down at my hand. I had forgotten about the ugly ring. “No,” I said. “I’m actually married.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. I realized that I had wanted a year to pretend that I was a normal high school student again—after my experience in Ruwais, I was sure that wouldn’t happen if kids knew I was married. I wished I’d left the ring at home. As this thought crossed my mind, another stampeded after it. I’m in love with my husband. I should feel happy about this. The mix of embarrassment and guilt fogged my mind.

  “Oh, okay,” said the girl, cheerfully. “I’ll let all of the guys know you’re off limits.” Then she turned on her heel and walked briskly across the schoolyard to join her friends.

  * * *

  Despite the fact that I was very publicly off limits, my time at the high school in Karachi was not lonely. In fact, perhaps because I was new, my married status didn’t seem to create the same discomfort among the other students as it had in Ruwais. Rather, as the newcomer, I drew a certain amount of attention. I was exotic, my fluency in English and my pronounced British accent reinforcing that mystique. By the time I had been at the school for a few weeks, I had a nice circle of friends to hang out with during the lunch break or after school, including a best friend: a boy named Fahad. And as I got to know people, my marital status seemed to fade from their minds—I ceased being the married one and became, once again, simply Samra. With this transformation, my return to teenage life was almost complete, although I turned down some invitations that seemed inappropriate now that I had a husband. (I also had to beat back a little crush I was developing on Fahad.)

  To my great surprise, however, while my marital status didn’t seem to hinder my success at school, my personality did. I had attended co-ed schools almost my whole life, but for most students in Karachi, high school was their first experience of spending the day with the opposite sex. Even those who were in their final year still seemed to be revelling in the hormonal excitement of it all. When a boy and girl were seen talking or sitting next to each other, a current of electricity ran through the whole place. By comparison, I was positively nonchalant. While some girls envied my comfort in talking with boys, others thought I must be a bit loose, despite my hijab.

  I shrugged off their insular, old-fashioned ideas. So it came as a bit of a shock when I discovered why my application to run for head girl had been rejected by the school administration. I was told that I wasn’t the type of girl they wanted to lead the school. When I asked what type of girl they thought I was, the teacher who was handling the election made mention of my role in the farewell assembly for the senior class. I had choreographed a dance for it and sung a song with Fahad. This public display of friendship between a boy and a girl was not the kind of thing the school encouraged, I was told. Outraged, I marched to the principal’s office to complain. He waved away my objections. “Your parents might be fine with your liberal attitude,” he said, “but it is not something we encourage here.” And with that, the conversation was over.

  (The principal did not mention my uncovered head, but at the urging of friends, I had abandoned my hijab for the assembly. I’d felt a spasm of guilt about this act of small defiance against my husband, but it was such a relief to feel my hair about my shoulders, to be fully myself again, that I didn’t put the scarf back on. Besides, as everyone had seen my hair now, it was pointless to cover it. Once Ahmed and I could talk about this in person, he would understand, I hoped.)

  My rejected head-girl application just underscored the stifling social environment of Pakistan. My sisters and I missed the freedoms we had enjoyed in Ruwais. We hated the fact that we couldn’t go on public transportation alone, and that even the short walk to school had to be done to a chorus of catcalls from the men and boys who shared the sidewalks with us.

  During my frequent conversations with Ahmed, I sometimes complained about all of this.

  “In only a couple of months, you will be able to go where you want, when you want,” Ahmed reassured me. “The streets are very safe here. Even at two in the morning.”

  I could hardly wait for that modern Canadian life to start.

  * * *

  Ahmed and I had submitted my immigration paperwork in August, just after the nikah, and I completed the rest of the process, including a medical exam, in the early winter. After that, all I could do was wait.

  One day in the late spring, the mail carrier buzzed the apartment. “There’s a package here for Samra,” he said.

  “Where’s it from?” I asked, my hopes rising.

  “Citizenship and Immigration Canada,” he replied.

  With that, I was flying out of the apartment. I didn’t stop to put shoes on, and I didn’t wait for the elevator. Instead, I raced down three flights of stairs, bursting into the building foyer with my hand outstretched. The mail carrier was waiting for me and stuck the envelope in my hand. I ran back upstairs, ripping open the envelope as soon as I crossed our doorway. When I saw the permanent residency papers, I burst into tears of happiness and relief. After sharing the news with my mother and sisters, I called Ahmed.

  “That’s fantastic!” he said. The excitement in his voice just added to my own.

  * * *

  Now that I could leave for Canada, my family had another wedding to plan: the rukhsati. Since the nikah had been an elaborate party, this would just be a formal dinner, after which I would leave my family to join Ahmed and his family. But it was to take place in Abu Dhabi, so despite its modesty, it would be a further blow to my parents’ budget.

  My parents purchased plane tickets for the entire family, and my father brought t
hem to us on one of his visits to Karachi. As I looked at them, a little shiver went through me. All of them were return flights to Karachi—except for my one-way ticket. I would not be returning.

  * * *

  On August 18, 2000, my immediate family and Ahmed’s met at a restaurant in an Abu Dhabi hotel for the rukhsati. It was the first time I had seen Ahmed since he arrived in the country, and while I had been excited at the prospect of being together again, now that it was actually happening timidity overcame me. My heart was thumping and my cheeks burned. I managed to talk a little more than I had at the nikah, but only to my parents and my sisters. And I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that at the end of this evening, my marriage would truly begin. I would be leaving my family forever.

  After the rukhsati dinner was over, my mother, father, sisters and I went up to my parents’ room to say our goodbyes. Ahmed, his parents—and I—would be staying in another hotel in Dubai. My mother gave me a big hug, but once my father’s arms wrapped around me I began to cry. Any distance between my mother and me, any rifts between father and daughter, now were as inconsequential as a grain of dust. Somehow, we managed to get back downstairs, through the lobby and out to the minivan that Ahmed’s family had rented. My family hovered around me as I went from one set of arms to another. I could only let go to move to another family member.

  Behind me I could hear Ahmed’s parents sighing and clearing their throats. Eventually, they gave voice to their impatience. “Come on, come on, let’s go,” said his mother.

  I stumbled through the door of the minivan, creeping my way to the back seat. Ahmed followed me, sitting beside me and taking my hand.

  As the van pulled out into traffic, Ahmed and Fatima and the rest of the family began to talk. They reviewed every item that had been served at dinner. They chatted about the phone calls they had received from Ahmed’s brothers and sisters who could not attend the rukhsati. They discussed what was new with other family members and people I didn’t know.

  During the ninety-minute drive, no one addressed me in any way. I could have interjected with a question or a topic we all could discuss, but I felt too frightened and disoriented to make the effort.

  Sitting next to Ahmed in the back of the van, it struck me that despite our emails and conversations, I really had no idea who he was. His family and his very world were as foreign to me as the people we passed on the street.

  When we finally got to the hotel, I followed Ahmed’s family into the lobby and up the elevator. Once we reached his parents’ room, someone pulled out a camera, and I was instructed to stand with Ahmed and with various configurations of his family. The haze that had enveloped me in the van refused to clear—I moved around as if someone else were controlling my body.

  Eventually, Fatima came to my side and took my elbow. “It’s time to go to Ahmed’s room now,” she whispered in my ear.

  My gaze dropped to the floor. I couldn’t look at Ahmed or anyone else in the room. Silently, I followed her down the corridor. Fatima let us into the room and sat me down on the bed. Her tone was teasing and playful as she broached the topic of my first night with my husband. She told me about her first sexual experience and then began to rattle off her sex tips.

  “Never stop your husband if he wants to do something. That will just upset him. And don’t start anything yourself. Men don’t like it when women are too forward. Always act shy.” And finally, “Never use contraception. Birth control pills can interfere with your fertility.”

  I sat frozen in place, wishing I was anywhere but there.

  Finally, she sighed and said, “Well, let’s get you ready.”

  She told me to sit in the middle of the bed, with my feet tucked under me. Then she took the lehnga, my skirt, and spread it around me in a circle. My dupatta was removed and rearranged so it fell over my face, hiding it from view.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m going to leave now. You wait like that until Ahmed gets here. He shouldn’t see your face until he lifts the dupatta.”

  As soon as I heard the hotel door click, I began to cry. I had had a year to prepare for this. It was not enough time.

  * * *

  I have no idea how long I sat there. It was an interval that seemed like an eternity but was at the same time terrifyingly short.

  I was staring at my lap when I heard the door open. Soft footsteps approached the bed. Then the mattress sagged beneath me. Ahmed was sitting at my side. He took the dupatta from my head.

  “Why are you covered up like that?” He was laughing.

  Then he bent towards me and gave me a light kiss on the forehead. He handed me a small box. When I opened it, a diamond ring winked at me.

  “I love you so much,” he said gently. “And I don’t want you to be scared. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

  Ahmed was true to his word. By the time I fell asleep that night, all we had done was cuddle and kiss, and I drifted off reminded of why I had fallen for him.

  * * *

  Ahmed and I had a week to spend in Dubai before our flight to Canada. During that time, we stayed at the hotel with his parents and extended family. My family had one final morning with me—at the traditional breakfast hosted by the groom’s family after the rukhsati. But we had no time alone. When my sisters wanted to take me up to our hotel room after the meal so we could talk a little in private, I shook my head. My mother-in-law had reminded me the evening before that I was a woman now, not a girl. Whatever childish fun I might have had with my younger sisters was no longer appropriate. I knew that she also considered it my duty to remain with the group. I tried to tell myself that turning down my sisters was the best way to get used to my new reality and to my new family. But when my mother, father and sisters left the hotel, it was all I could do not to run after them and beg them to take me with them.

  The following day, my family flew back to Pakistan while I sat with Ahmed’s parents in their hotel room. I had to concentrate as hard as I could to keep myself from crying. But my distress was evident to everyone in the room.

  Ahmed’s mother was offended. “You should be happy,” she said sharply. “Happy about your new life and your new family. You know, there is really something wrong with you if you aren’t.”

  I tried to smile and respond with some measure of cheerfulness in my voice, but my mother-in-law was not fooled. She pressed her lips together before she spoke again. “Being so unhappy to join your husband’s family means that you are not being a good wife. Or a good daughter-in-law.” It seemed from the emphasis she put on the second statement that it was the most important.

  Just then, Fatima’s husband entered the room. He turned to me and chuckled. “So your parents have finished the chore of marrying you off and left as soon they could, huh?” he said.

  “They had to get back so my sister could write her exams,” I said defensively.

  “Sure, sure,” he responded. “They couldn’t get out of here fast enough now that they’ve unloaded their burden.”

  Everyone in the room was laughing, as if he had just cracked a joke, but I knew they all truly believed it. My parents, whatever their faults, never felt weighed down by having four daughters. My new family clearly didn’t share this attitude. If I’d been persuaded earlier that Ahmed’s family was progressive, that illusion had now been swept away.

  I was just grateful that Ahmed thought this was all nonsense.

  * * *

  The week in Dubai crawled by, each day slower and more enervating than the previous one. I spent hours and hours sitting in my in-laws’ hotel room, listening to my mother-in-law and other family members gossip about friends and relations. Ahmed often joined us, but sometimes he went out on his own or with his brothers. He would always address his mother when he made this announcement—never meeting my eyes or inviting me to go with him. In the evenings, Ahmed and I sat with his parents in their room, my eyes often drooping shut as the minutes dragged on. When I nudged Ahmed or tried to silently signal that
we should leave, he would give his head a quick shake and then turn his attention back to his parents until they told us that they were ready for bed and we could leave.

  My only break from the stale air and claustrophobic atmosphere of the hotel room came on the almost daily trips to the Dubai malls. These were done en masse, the entire family trailing after Ahmed’s mother—his amma—as she went from shop to shop, looking at almost everything but never making a purchase. Ahmed and his brother sometimes hived off to go for coffee, but it was clear that I was to remain with Amma.

  One night after Ahmed and I had been dismissed from his parents’ room, I asked him why we couldn’t be alone now and then.

  “Abba and Amma would be hurt if we didn’t spend this time with them, Samra,” he said. “Be patient. It is only five or six more days, and then we will have all the time alone we want.”

  Ahmed was right, but I couldn’t help it—I felt trapped.

  * * *

  The morning of our departure, I had my bags packed and ready to go. We were taking an overnight flight, and the day stretched out in front of me like a desert. Just this one more day, I reminded myself. I pulled on one of my best new outfits and adorned myself with my gold wedding jewellery. Then, I reluctantly joined Ahmed as he headed to his parents’ hotel room.

  Ahmed’s mother was making tea when we arrived; his sister Fatima and her husband were sitting on the couch, chatting about their plans for the day. I sat down next to Fatima without saying a word, quickly losing myself in thought. I was so relieved to be leaving these people, but the plane I really wanted to get on was flying to Pakistan. As much as Karachi had been difficult, anywhere my parents and sisters were was home. And the truth was, I wanted to go home.

  My daydreaming was broken by a shriek. It was Fatima. She was looking at the doorway. I heard my father’s voice calling out my name. There, standing just inside the room, were my parents, their gentle faces beaming at me. They had flown back to see me before I left! I sprinted to them and threw myself into my father’s open arms. My mother wrapped her arms around me too, and the three of us stood in a tight huddle, my parents stroking my hair while I sobbed. All the tears I had been pressing down for the week were now bubbling to the surface.