Be a Woman Once, Oh Lord!
Editor’s note: ‘Heart Lamp’ is a collection of short stories written by Banu Mushtaq and translated by Deepa Bhasthi. It is the first Kannada-language book on the shortlist for the International Booker Prize. These often heart-wrenching stories offer rare glimpses into the hearts and lives of Muslim girls and women. This excerpt tenderly maps the agonising erasure of a newly married woman’s identity and bond with her family—and the warping of her bond with her mother. Excerpted with permission from Penguin Random House India.
I knew Amma was sobbing. No matter how far we went, I could still hear her sobs. Here too, one small question: what would have happened if he came and set down roots with us? When you so leisurely created the animal kingdom, the delicate threadlike parts inside flowers with gold coating, these marvellous ponds and lakes, rivers and streams, did you not have the time to peep into my heart and see my fears, my wishes, dreams and disappointments? I had nothing left that was just my own. I had to set down roots in another’s front yard, grow new shoots there, bloom there. He was getting attached, while my identity was melting away. Even my name got lost. Do you know what my new name was? His wife. My body, my mind were not my own. To my surprise, he desired my body, whose power to bounce back even I was unaware of. He devoured me. Except in those moments, the sceptre of power you had bestowed on him shone in his hands.
From where all his cunningness sprang and in what ways, I don’t know. In an instant he could break my heart into pieces, and would scatter each piece to different corners. My body was his play-ground; my heart, a toy in his hand. This way, like this, I used to apply balm, to attempt to repair my heart, but he continued to break it at whim. Prabhu, why did I have to become a toy? I do not hate him, nor do I wish for him to be my plaything either. If only I had been his backbone and he the hands that would wipe my tears away…
He had been using me for less than a week when he screamed like a madman. What am I? What is my status, there are people who will give me lakhs of rupees, but I ended up bringing home a beggar like you! How was I supposed to answer? As per Amma’s advice, I remained silent. He ordered, ‘You must bring fifty thousand rupees from your parents’ house immediately. If not, you can never set foot there ever again.’ I went back to Amma, like costume jewellery wrapped in a dirty cloth.
Amma’s face lit up. Hundreds of suns and moons shone in her eyes in an instant. They immediately dimmed when she saw that he had not come with me. She gently took me in. The demand for fifty thousand rupees had disturbed the happiness on my face. That night when I slept next to Amma, I felt at peace, but soon he came to mind. A hole opened up in the fortress of Amma’s loving heart. He had crept in. By the time three days had passed, even I waited eagerly on my tiptoes. When he enquired if I’d got the money and saw my withered face, he said: ‘This is the last time we will come here. You cannot return from now on; nor should your parents come to our house.’
Amma fed me to my stomach’s content. She blessed me with all her heart. She combed all the knots out, and braided my hair as if threading all her loving kisses together. The string of jasmine she tied in my hair was, like her, fragrant. Kanakambara flowers played hide-and-seek with the jasmine. Looking back at Amma every other second, I peeled my reluctant footsteps off the ground and walked behind him.
He was not one to go back on his word. Shouldn’t there be a limit to his arrogance? I did not open my braid out for three days after I went back to his house. I was scared of Amma’s loving kisses slipping away. My heart was attached to her; his was attached to having the last word. I did not meet Amma after that. There is no need for me to bring this to your attention either. You know all this; your own bookkeepers bring you crores and crores of such reports every day, but they are all written with a pen, whereas this report was written from the heart, a woman’s heart, a string of letters written with the heart’s sharp nib and the red ink inside. Perhaps no such requests have reached you till now because you have no bookkeepers who have a heart like mine.
As always, I am a prisoner of a soul whose doors and windows are shut. I did not see Amma, or Appa, or my younger brother ever again. There was a distant hope that Amma would not remain quiet. I know that she tried to see me many times. But he had built such a strong fort that all her efforts were in vain. His greed for money swallowed all our attachments, love and affection. He was blind but strong about his stand.
Several neighbours used to advise me to be the way he thinks is right. Even you have preached the same thing, that he is my God, that it is my duty to obey him, that in this world he can meet anyone anywhere any time he wants. But me? It was you who said that mother too is equal to God, it was you who said that there was heaven under her feet, and yet I cannot meet her even once. Whether you have time for these small problems striking my limited thoughts, whether you feel my entire life is a three-hour play, whether I seem like an actor to you, keep one thing in mind: my happiness and sadness are not borrowed. They are not to be performed. They are to be experienced. You are just a detached director. When one of your own characters assaults my mind, have you no duties as a director? Grant me one solace at least. What is my fault in all this, tell me?
He never asked me if I had eaten or had something to drink. But he ploughed, he sowed; despite its shattered heart and fatigue-filled soul, the body was ripe, the womb ready, and his hunger was great too. I was on the road to becoming a mother myself but I stood in a corner constantly looking back down the road to my maternal home. I could not see any form or shape no matter how far into the horizon I looked. All I could see were a few green memory trees, as they shed their leaves and grew bare.
