In our continuing blog series on sexual and gender violence, we feature a story in which a young woman struggles with the demands of a traditional marriage and her desire to study medicine.
Faske-nikah
Neera Kashyap
He had promised my
parents that he would support my medical studies, both financially and in
spirit, after we got married. For me, it was the basis for giving my consent.
Still Asad Bhai insisted that we have a nikahnama made which carried a clause that my husband,
Nasir Ahmed would support my medical studies. Being a physician, my brother
knew that medical studies were a long and arduous undertaking that would need extraordinary
support.
Abba had first baulked
at the idea, saying nobody got formal nikahnamas made; it would give the impression that he and
Ammi did not trust my in-laws. But Asad Bhai persevered so that the nikahnama not only carried the
clause of support for my medical studies but details of the mehr I would receive from them,
a detail that Abba had no reason to negotiate. My husband and his family were
gold merchants and my mehr included
both money and several tolas of
gold.
At the nikah, when the qazi came into my room to get
my assent, I stared with bewilderment at my hennaed hands and feet,
at the glittering edging of my veil as it hung low over my head. Softly, I
voiced my acceptance three times, but waited for him to read out the clauses of
the nikahnama, nodding approval
only after he had read out the condition that my husband would pay for my
medical studies. Passing the medical entrance exams had carried a huge thrill
for me, a joy I knew was shared. For it was Abba, sitting at his chemist shop
with a pile of newspapers, who had tracked down my roll number among the
successful candidates, and it was my brother Asad who had left his hospital
duty early to rush home to communicate the news to me.
The qazi returned to the
congregation to read the Khutbah from
the Quran, explaining the mutual rights and duties of the spouses. It was to
the Quran I expressed my gratitude again and again – as we sat and prayed
together after the wedding dinner – the holy book between us, and when I
entered his home for the first time – my mother-in-law, standing at the threshold,
holding the Quran above my head.
It was to the Quran
I clung when everything turned out differently. On the first night when my
hands and feet involuntarily resisted his rough overtures, he clipped both my
hands together over my head with his large hand. I must have passed out soon
after, but on waking, my body seemed to be one great throb of searing pain.
Some nights, the image rose in my mind of a butcher hacking hard at a leg of
mutton and the carcass thrown to rot in the open drain.
*
When Abba called to
say that my allotment letter for the medical college had come and the due date
for paying the fees was a week away, my heart throbbed with longing for my
family. I could visualise Abba looking through the papers in his intent curious
way as he spoke to me, ‘Zoya bitia, there are a lot of things needed here: so
many certificates and your admit card roll number – all in original and
photocopy. Three bank drafts have to be made in the name of your medical
college. Better you come here with Nasir beta, and I will explain
everything.’
‘Yes, Abbuji,’ I
said, keeping the tremor out of my voice. ‘We will come soon.’
I waited that night
to speak to my husband – after he had had his fill of sex, for that was when he
lay awake for a while and talked. I explained the medical college admission
formalities in brief. There was no reaction – no resistance, no assurance, no
indulgence – nothing. Just a chilling indifference as he turned his back on me.
With shock, I watched the white chikankari of
his black kurta move
rhythmically to the heavy breathing of sleep.
My first act of
resistance was to leave the breakfast utensils unwashed the next morning and to
enter my mother-in-law’s room without summons after the men left for work. Ammi
Jaan was reclining on her vast bolstered divan watching Nazia trace a paisley pattern onto a stretch
of cloth. I had to come right into the room before she acknowledged me with a
smile that did not reach her eyes. She did not ask me to sit.
I came straight to
the point: ‘Abbuji called yesterday. We have to pay my medical college fees
within a week. There are bank drafts to be made and … other formalities.’ My
voiced faltered as I pushed, ‘Can you speak to him about this? Can Abba Jaan
speak to him?’
‘To Nasir? You must
have already spoken to him,’ said my mother-in-law.
I was silent.
‘He doesn’t
approve? How can he, Zoya beti?
You are so beautiful. Like an exquisite piece of gold jewellery. He can’t lose
you. Suppose someone was to make eyes at you in that medical college? And you
were to fall for it? We would then lose our exquisite piece of gold jewellery,
would we not? Come sit near me, beti.
Here. You have everything here. We don’t need your medical degree, do we – so
why do you?’ She reached for the remote control and turned on the television,
raising the volume simultaneously. Nazia glanced up slyly at me.
I could make no
response. What response could I make to her, to him, to them who deliberately
chose not to recognise me, and the achievement for a girl from our community to
get a seat in the best medical college in the State? Woodenly, I watched Nazia
finish the tracing on the cloth before leaving the room. Ammi Jaan’s door
closed on me, as the sound from the television got sharply reduced.
In the ensuing
days, I did not see him alone. He must have slept in the spare room, coming
into our room only to change. But before the week was out, my parents came. As
they sat with stiff humility in the gleaming living room, my mother-in-law
spoke untiringly of me: of my poor adjustment, my lack of social and culinary
skills, my disobedience to her and my husband, my unorthodoxy, my stubbornness,
my selfishness. From time to time, my father-in-law nodded while he … he
assumed the air of gloomy disappointment.
Finally, Abba
stirred from a hapless humility to plead that my admission to medical studies
could technically be deferred for another two years through a gap year
certificate for which a simple affidavit from a doctor certifying medical
illness could be submitted. Since I was only seventeen, I could gain admission
next year which would give me time to adjust to my new home. My Ammi raised her
hands in a silent plea. The agreement was deliberately left vague. Except that
it was in the nikahnama; I
urged my parents wordlessly to assert this, feeling their betrayal. By
the time they left, I felt abandoned as if on a remote island, absolutely
alone.
Ammi Jaan called me
into her room the next morning. I saw for the first time how witchy she looked:
the tube light reflected off the blue wall to give her features the quality of
a stiff blue mask with hollow arching eyes.
She smiled. ‘Come
near, beti. Come, come.
You must not take all what I said to your parents to heart. We have to live
together, so I had to caution you to the ways of this household. How better
than to speak before your parents? All we expect is obedience, nothing more.
And of course, we expect a grandchild, our first grandchild – Nasir’s son, our
family heir. Is that too much to ask, beti?’ She reached out with her blessing, plucking her hands
down on either side of my head and knocking her knuckles against her forehead.
My nausea welled up
enough to make me gag, but I kept it down. ‘Ammi Jaan,’ I said, my voice
tremulous with sorrow. ‘I want to study. I want to be a doctor. Please, please
help me, Ammi Jaan.’
For an instant, her
mask lifted and my eyes filled to see a listening face. Almost instantly, the
mask was back again, her eyeballs moving rapidly to gain control. ‘Did you soak
the rice and dal for
the khichri?’ she
asked. I broke down only when I reached my room, not allowing her the
satisfaction of seeing my sorrow.
My second act of
resistance was to see that I did not get pregnant for the next one year – till
I could claim my seat again through a gap year certificate. I looked up the
unsafe days for an average reproductive cycle and saw they were eleven long
nights that fell together. For some months he did not understand my strategy of
resisting him during the unsafe period, but when he did, he used force and
beatings to make his invasions. Still, I managed to keep the three or four most
fertile days free from his assaults. The year dragged on.
It was a battle of
wits. While I sought control at night, his family imposed more controls by day.
I could no longer go out alone. I could not visit my parents or anyone without
permission - denied regularly on some flimsy pretext. I did all my assigned
tasks, yet made time to read and re-read my pre-medical texts and the Quran. I
zealously followed the call of the azaan,
praying alongside. My heart would trip when reciting the Ta’awwudh, as I knew its meaning: ‘I
seek shelter in Allah from Shaitan, the cursed one.’
The year passed. My
mother did not probe my situation so interactions with my family remained on
the surface. When my mother-in-law announced that my father was coming to
visit, I was surprised. Abba came to the same gleaming living room. But this
time he came with Asad Bhai, who held in his hand my nikahnama. They sat close together on
a red velvet two-seater beneath a gilt mirror. After some subdued pleasantries,
Abba came to the point. ‘I want to bring up the issue of Zoya’s medical
studies. Both families had agreed that she would be allowed to study medicine.
Her admission itself is a rare achievement – she worked for it with all her
heart. I request you to allow her to claim her seat this year. We will arrange
for the gap certificate. But she needs your willingness and blessings.’
There was a tense
silence. Asad Bhai held up the nikahnama and
said, ‘The agreement is in this document. It has signatures….’ Abba held up a
restraining hand.
Then he, my
husband, laughed – a slow fat laugh that shook his massive frame. His laugh
found reflection in Ammi Jaan’s arched eyes and amused smile. ‘But hasn’t
Zoya beti told you?’
she said.
‘She won’t be
claiming her seat this year, she will be giving us a precious gift instead –
our family heir, Nasir’s child. We will be grandparents.’
My father recovered
quickly, unlike Asad Bhai who took longer to disguise his shock.
‘Samdhanji,’ Abba said to Ammi Jaan. ‘Forgive
me, but we did not know. We did not know … we are happy for you all … we are
happy. I have only one request. Please let Zoya come to us as often as she
wishes. This will make her happy and Asad will look for the right doctor for
her.’ As they made to rise, the nikahnama dropped
from Asad’s lap. My husband swooped down on it with the same slow fat laugh.
I moved back to my
parents’ home a few months before my delivery. My child was stillborn. Born
pre-term, he was perfectly formed but small and still. Asad said it was
probably the malaria I had suffered in my ninth month that had infected the
placenta, forcing the baby to come too weak, too early. I felt nothing. Nothing
when my in-laws crowded outside the labour room in anticipation, nothing when
they fled on knowing he was stillborn. By the time I recovered, the date for
claiming my medical college seat for the second time had passed.
Faske-nikah. Divorce. It was Abba’s idea. I
concurred wholeheartedly and with gratitude. Abba chose the Darul Qaza, the sharia court for filing
the appeal. He said it would be faster, cheaper, would follow Quranic
principles and be less damaging socially. It turned out differently.
The Darul Qaza was a pink building
with several stories and a neat front lawn dotted with palm trees. He and my
parents-in-law were there for the first hearing. We all sat on the ground on
rugs before an old bearded qazi who sat at a low sloping table, peering at our
appeal and nikahnama for
a long while before calling out my name. I tightened my hijab around my neck before sitting
down before him.
‘Why have you filed
for divorce from
your husband, Nasir Ahmed?’ he quizzed.
‘I … we had agreed
before the nikah that
he would pay for my medical studies. It is in the nikahnama … I passed my medical entrance….’
‘I know what is in
the nikahnama. Were there arbiters
from both sides to help reconcile the differences?’
‘My parents came,
requesting that my husband should pay my fees. It is in the nikah… my in-laws said they wanted me
to adjust to their family before I could think of joining medical college.’
‘Why could you not
adjust? It is the duty of good women to be obedient.’ Despite my sweating
palms, I pushed, ‘I did my duty. I was obedient. He … they did not want me to
study … they did everything to prevent me.’
‘What did they do?’
I searched for the
right words. Before I could, he dismissed me with a wave and summoned him
instead. He unleashed the same tirade that my mother-in-law had unleashed about
me. There was an addition. ‘She does not have a good character,’ he said,
leaning conspiratorially towards the qazi. ‘She has deliberately gone out alone
into the crowded market late in the evening when all modest women have left the
streets to go home. She deliberately removes her niqab before men. If she can
do this while living in a traditional home, what will she do in her medical
college?’
The qazi shook his
head and quoted from the Quran, his family gathered around the qazi, speaking
in whispers. The qazi announced, ‘The Ahmed family is willing to take the girl
back. I am setting the next day for the last Thursday of next month. Let us
hope the girl will consider reconciliation and adjust to the culture of her
husband’s family.’
This could not be
according to the Quran, I thought. The Quran is just and benevolent, equally to
men and to women. I knew this, as the Quran had held me together through my
worst days. More hearings transpired. Then my husband and in-laws stopped
appearing. Slowly we learnt that while this court could pass the decree
of divorce, it could not make him return my mehr. A divorce without mehr
would make me a burden on my family. It would sour everything. I began
working on Asad. Together, we eventually succeeded in persuading Abba to remove
our papers from the Darul Qaza and
file a divorce petition in the civil court.
It took two long
and trying years. I worked in Abba’s chemist shop to help save on the salary of
two salesmen. Still, it was a terrible financial drain on Abba. The divorce
finally came through, with a court order decreeing he returned the mehr. I would pass my medical
entrance exam once again and use the mehr for my medical studies. There was no decision here. This
was choiceless.
*
Neera Kashyap
is the author of short stories for children, Daring to Dream, Rupa
& Co, 2003 and for anthologies from Children’s Book Trust, 2004 and
forthcoming. She has contributed essays that interpret scriptures and ancient
literatures to print journals. Her short fiction, poetry and creative
nonfiction have been published in Reading
Hour, Muse India, Cerebration, The Bombay Literary Magazine, Direct
Path, Kritya and The Earthen Lamp Journal. She lives in
Delhi.
A thought provoking story where a meritorious girl’s academic aspirations have been rudely trammelled; where her female sensitivity has been brutalized – with pregnancy forced on her; her character has been sadistically besmirched; and mutually agreed pact has been unilaterally breached by her husband and in-laws ... yet, thank God and her parents and brother, she has managed to survive, not before facing a trauma of unpleasant ‘legal’ grilling and course correction for justice... to fulfil her dashed aspirations at last, but minus the original and natural thrill. A searing story. Kudos to Neera Kashyap for presenting a facet of the lives of the exploited female lot.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully expressed ..!
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