Excerpted from Women, Dreaming, Penguin, Hamish Hamilton, 2020.
*
Hasan had been angry all morning, not knowing what to do with his anger nor how to bring it under control. Sabi, from the small grocery shop by the mosque, had taunted him, ‘What machchaan, you preach all this only for the village? You speak of ibaddat, sharia, hadith, and nothing applies to you? Hasan had felt revolted.
He was making fun of Hasan because, according to him, Hasan’s mother had gone somewhere to reverse some black magic cast on her family. But it was more than that. Each of his words hid one thousand meanings. Hasan felt as though he was being mocked for the fact that his ex-wife had married again.
Once, when Hasan had seen Sabi’s sister idly chatting with Kaja at night, he planned for days to catch them red-handed; he had scolded the pair and had taken the matter up with Faisal at the mosque. Surely this had caused Sabi to rail against him now, not willing to give up a good opportunity to mock Hasan.
‘He’s preaching to the village, but his mother believes in black magic and he is not able to stop her.’ Sani expressed his mockery with crude gestures and intonations. A few people were drinking tea at a shop nearby. His voice gave away his attempt to catch their attention. A dog on the street paused to stare at the scene.
Not knowing if this charge against his mother was true or false, Hasan contemplated the possibility for a moment. Rage overtook him, he lurched forward to throw a punch. ‘Who said so? Can you prove it?’
‘Hmm. Who else went with your mother but my aunt? First go and ask her, and then come to me.’ Sabi pushed Hasan away and got on with his work, hanging bottles of Coke and Pepsi and bananas on the facade of his shop.
‘Hey, what did you say, scum? If this turns out to be false, I’m going to slash your throat,’ Hasan threatened the shopkeeper, seething. He started his TVS-50 engine and pushed home. He was shaken. Could it be true? If it was just gossip, the guy would’ve been afraid to affirm something so serious… He felt nervous, a chill ran through him, as though his very body was resigned to the truth of Sabi’s statement. Why would Amma behave this way? Already the entire village knows about my business, and now this, now where can we hide these blemishes? He stopped outside his home, sombre, then went inside with great resolve. When he saw that his mother was offering prayers, he stood silently in a corner, leaning against the door.
She greeted him, ‘Salaam alaykum, what is the matter son?’ ‘Nothing, finish your prayers,’ he said. The anger in his face made her insides churn. ‘I’ve finished now,’ she said – and added, ‘come and sit,’ as she gestured towards the sofa.
‘Did you go somewhere to get some black magic removed?’ His question was direct, clipped. What she had dreaded was now unravelling quickly. For a few moments, she stared into space, not knowing what to say. ‘Yes, I went – just like that – you see—' Every word was broken.
‘Kafir. Why do you even bother to pray? You have found equals to Allah, what is the need for you to pray. Shaitaan. Shaitaan!’ His shouting was cruel.
‘Dogs who were once afraid to even stand in front of me are now challenging me, they are pushing me on the street—’ He was overtaken with humiliation. He felt as if all the respect and honour he had once commanded had evaporated into thin air. He took his left hand to draw out his beard, and even as his fingers quivered in torment, he desperately sought some pretence at control. ‘I preach the hadith to the whole village and ask people to stay away from the shaitaan. But it seems I’ve been doing that in vain when the iblis in my own house is practicing shirk and committing blasphemy.’
Subaida, afraid that the neighbours would hear Hasan’s diatribe, went to close the windows and the entrance door. ‘For what are you closing the doors.’ said Hasan, his voice like a wild scream. ‘The whole world is laughing at us. Go and see what the word on the streets is.’
It appeared as if he was deliberately raising his voice to make himself heard by the outside world, for others to know that he was the type of man who could chastise his own mother. She felt that if it had been someone other than her, he might even have beaten them up. Seeing the cruelty behind his anger, Subaida said vindictively, ‘Yes, I went. Since birth, I have been facing untold hardship. There is not a single day when I don’t pray, but that Allah seems to be beating down my family again and again, I somehow wanted something good to happen, so I went. What problem is it of yours?’ her voice lashed.
In a corner of her heart, she felt a small hope that her emotional outburst might melt away his anger.
‘Go, then!’ Hasan retorted. ‘Go to temple after temple and ask those gods. You asked Allah and it did not happen, so why not ask other gods. What a fool you are! You lack intelligence! Can one ascribe other equals to Allah – no, everything is gone. All the goodness, prayers, faith – everything is gone – you are going to hell.’
His voice grew louder. At first, Subaida had felt that her neighbours should not hear anything for that would be improper, but now she wished they would hear the manner in which her own son was shouting at her. She earnestly desired for the village to learn that she had gone to a sorcerer against the wishes of her son, and that still, he had firmly held to his righteous views. After all, only then could he continue preaching to everyone – he could attend his tablighi jamaat and continue his life as before. Otherwise, the village would mock him, and he would be incapacitated with shame. Being a mother, this was her perspective.
‘Allah has said that life on this earth is not life. What matters is the afterlife, the life we live in heaven. This life is not important. “I will give all kinds of sorrows and tests to my people in their earthly life; the one who retains faith through all of it, only he can reach heaven” – this is what Allah says. All these sorrows, these are his tests for you – please understand.” He finished his long sermon, his facial features relaxing a little. Subaida was concerned to see him with his voice trembling, his reddened face, his body covered in sweat. How could it be that so many people in this world were so happy, she thought to herself. She sat silently.
Perhaps Mehar had left Hasan because she was unable to bear this attitude of his. Yet as soon as this thought floated in Subaida’s mind, she pinned it down, to unravel its meaning carefully.
There were no special days. She could not do the fatiha, she should not leave the house. She should not watch movies, she should not stand in the street, and if and when she did step out, if she absolutely had to, even her eyes should not be visible under the burqa. She should not wear lipstick, she should not wear jewellery, she should not watch tv, she should not go to dargah with the neighbouring ladies, she should not use contraceptives, she should not abort her foetus. Subaida exhaled, ‘Allahoo.’
‘I went, what has happened has happened. What do you expect me to do now?’ she asked calmly, as if there was no problem at all.
‘My shame and honour have turned to dust,’ Hasan replied. ‘Who will listen to me now? They will instead tell me to go and preach to my mother.’
Subaida replied calmly, ‘If anyone says something like that, tell that guy to come to me, I will give a fitting reply. I will tell each of them to look at the flood in their own cunts.’
Unable to tolerate his mother speaking so coarsely and knowing that it wasn’t going to help things if he stayed any longer, Hasan hastily got away. When the sound of his engine faded away, Subaida thought to herself: Shame and respect? Does he really still think there is anything left?
She started reading the Quran. It was enough for her to get peace by any means necessary.
She did not want anyone telling her what was forbidden and what was permissible. Even as she muttered all this, she read in a meditative manner.
*
The novel was first published in Tamil under the title Manaamiyangal by Kalachuvadu Publications in 2016.
*
Salma is a writer of poetry and fiction. She has faced great adversity, including obscenity charges and violent threats against her erotic poetry, and has been locked away by her family. She has become a political leader and campaigner for women’s rights. She is the subject of an eponymous documentary film by Kim Longinotto. Salma’s debut novel, The Hour Past Midnight, Zubaan, 2015, translated into English by Lakshmi Holmstrom, was longlisted for the Man Asia Literary Prize. Her short story collection The Curse, translated by N Kalyan Raman, was published in 2020 by Speaking Tiger and includes a story that appeared in Out of Print.
*
Meena Kandasamy is a poet, fiction writer, translator and activist who lives in Chennai and London. She has published two collections of poetry, Touch, Peacock Books, 2006, and Ms. Militancy, Navayana, 2011, and the critically acclaimed novels The Gypsy Goddess, Fourth Estate, 2014, and When I Hit You: Or, the Portrait of the Writer As a Young Wife, Juggernaut, 2017, which was shortlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction in 2018. Exquisite Cadavers, Context, 2019, is her latest novel.