Seema Hyderi sat perched on top of an empty blue Samsonite, staring at the gate that her husband had pushed her out of twenty minutes ago. For the third time in her marriage of ten months, she had been unceremoniously evicted for unsuitable behaviour.
The spinner wheels rolled under her weight as she waited for Momin to calm down and allow her back inside. The suitcase, like her, was round and shock-absorbent. Seema withstood the indignities and upsets of her new marriage with a resilience nourished by croissants, butter naan, Pringles and chocolates. Her expanding waistline was a cause of much dismay to her husband and mother-in-law. To the former it was unattractive. To the latter, it was a disappointment because it wasn’t caused by a baby.
This expulsion wasn’t a punishment – at least, she wasn’t meant to think it was. According to her mother-in-law, it was an opportunity for reflection. “When we are away from it all, my love, we think more clearly. We realize how important it is that our husbands be kept content. Once you come back inside, you should do so as a better wife, otherwise, it is all for nothing.”
The first time Momin had kicked her out was because she had gone to a salon and cut her hair short without his permission. He had glowered at her bob and asked her who had given her leave to look like a wilted spider plant. She had stuttered something about not needing his permission but had that set him right off. He’d hurled his BlackBerry at the wall and shattered it; then dragged her by the elbow out of the gate and out of his home. She had wept and begged to be let in, but he’d solemnly brought the Samsonite and told her to sit quietly and not create a scene. Later, his mother had explained where Seema had gone wrong. “You made a scene, my love. Now the entire neighborhood will know that you are willful. Hyderi women must be obedient, even when our men are making an example out of us. We must be like brocade curtains, shielding everything from the world outside. Come what tumult there may, we hang silently, not letting anything show.”
Her second offence had been coming home from her friend Faiza’s dinner party forty-five minutes later than she said she would. Momin had said she could go alone because he had no interest in socializing with her friends and their husbands who were all younger than him; he preferred to spend time with his parents instead. But she had tarried, which meant she had enjoyed herself without him and this had upset him. So out of the gate she went again. He’d made her sit for forty-five minutes before letting her back in.
And now she was back outside, back to square one, a rotund re-offender. This time she expected to be turned out for an hour but was surprised to hear footsteps and the rattle of the gate latch ten minutes into her exile. She sat a bit straighter, expecting her husband, but it was his mother who appeared, a sympathetic smile on her face.
“Ma Jee, can I come back inside?” she asked hopefully. Her mother-in-law shook her head. She was holding a mug of steaming hot tea. “Meri jaan, I thought tea would help tide you through this difficult time. Drink.”
Seema accepted the mug gratefully and took a tentative sip. It was hot and sweet and tasted of elaichi – Ma Jee knew Seema loved the zing of cardamom in her chai. It was a small gesture, but it made her feel that she belonged.
Ma Jee looked around the empty street, satisfied that no one could see them conversing in the open. “Darling, I don’t know what came over you. I thought you had more self-control. Momin is in a state, and I don’t blame him. It will take him some time to calm down. His father is working on it, as am I.”
“I’m sorry, Ma Jee,” Seema whispered, her eyes downcast.
Ma Jee put a hand on the top of Seema’s head to indicate she appreciated her contrition. “I know this must be hard for you. It was hard for me too. Hyderi men have always tested the mettle of their women. The thing to do is to be patient and wait. If you want to learn anything from me, learn this: with silence, a woman can tame a raging tiger. And Momin is just a man, just like his father was.
Do you see how well I am treated now? It is because I went through all this. Just as you have to. There is no choice – the only way is through.”
Seema blinked back some traitorous tears and took another sip of tea. Ma Jee planted a kiss on her forehead. “Don’t cry. Take control of your emotions and your life. This too shall pass and good times will come. Now I must go back inside. Don’t worry, I’m sure Momin will be out to get you very soon.” Another kiss on the forehead and Ma Jee was gone, the gate clanging shut firmly behind her.
Grateful for her mother-in-law’s advice, she wiped her tears away and vowed to remain quiet and forbearing. Momin and his father were hot-tempered and easily flustered. But Ma Jee was relentless in her kindness. She listened to Seema’s woes with great calm before telling her how wrong she was about everything. For the first time, it seemed that she’d finally found a mother who truly cared. She didn’t want to lose Ma Jee’s love.
She must remember to smile and look cheerful once allowed inside. Last time, she’d made the mistake of maintaining her silence once she had been let back in the house. Ma Jee had told her to stop at once, because silence was another form of rebellion. “It is difficult, I know. It becomes hard to breathe. Remember, a cocoon is small and claustrophobic, but it is necessary to make a caterpillar into a butterfly. It takes time to become a dutiful wife,” she had said.
Her offence this time had been rebellion. She’d walked in on him discussing their sex life with his father. Complaining about it was more accurate: how awful she was in bed, so unresponsive, so dry it was like scraping his cock against denim. Unaware of her presence, he had gone on to divulge that they’d had sex only five times in the last ten months.
Stiff with embarrassment, she had fled out of the room and flung herself on the bed, weeping furiously. Momin did not follow her. No one did. When she went back an hour later, he was watching the news with his parents as if nothing untoward had occurred. He looked up at her and cocked an insolent eyebrow.
“You know, if you cry with mascara on, at least wash your face. You look like a raccoon.”
Rage, unwelcome but insistent, flooded her senses. Before she could stop, the words came, loud and accusing. “You bastard! Have you no shame? Discussing our private life with your parents. And then you make fun of me while I cry?”
“Seema,” warned Ma Jee, “This is unwise.”
“There’s nothing private between me and my parents.”
“Oh, I see. Well, then, shall I tell your parents about our wedding night? The truth? The real truth about how you cried in the bathroom because you didn’t know what to do?”
Momin’s mouth formed a shocked “o”. Writhing under her scrutiny on his parents’ bed, he looked small and ridiculous. Trapped. “You’ve gone too far,” he glowered.
The irony of the moment was not lost on Seema. This man, her lord and master, ensconced on his parents’ bed with his hairy, spindly legs crossed protectively over his crotch, was trying to intimidate her. An oversized T-shirt with the words ‘I am God’ shrouded his narrow frame. She should have apologized, but the sight of him evoked raw hatred inside her. She took off her rubber bathroom slipper and launched it at him. It thwacked him on the face. Momin blinked, then stood on his parent’s bed and threw it back at her, missing her by a good six inches.
Ba Jee rose from the sofa and stood between them. “Enough,” he roared. His rage frightened Seema into taking a few steps back and emboldened Momin, who scrambled off and took a few menacing steps. For a minute, she thought he would hit her, but instead he grabbed her with a vice-like grip and dragged her outside, suitcase in tow. The suitcase didn’t have clothes in it, but it was always on hand for the symbolic value it possessed – like it, she could be thrown out with ease and efficiency. She’d cried all the way outside, and then at the gate, until she could cry no more. She’d wiped the tears from her eyes and then sobbed, but quietly. Ma Jee wouldn’t appreciate another spectacle on the streets.
Excerpted with permission from A Woman on a Suitcase, Shazaf Fatima Haider, Penguin.
