Nihal understood whose doing it was. It was Nitu's work. Either way, he went to the market. I didn't want to go—what would people think of a new bride appearing in the bazaar like that! But he insisted, and I had to. We bought a sari. Then I noticed Nitu was jealous. She's in class ten. Because her uncle's money was going toward my sari, she couldn't get her three-piece outfit, and her face turned dark as coal. When I realized this, I told Nihal to get Nitu shopping too—twenty-five hundred takas' worth. I drink a lot of tea. But I couldn't very well say that there. I'm the new one in the house.
Nihal knew. He got me tea from some cramped little shop. And here's the thing—I had only one blouse, an old olive-colored one of my mother-in-law's that I'd been rotating and wearing. There's another one, sure, but it's some golden thing made of such stiff fabric. It was stitched for my thesis defense, and it's unwearable. And I had only one petticoat. Made for my presentation. An old one at that. So when I got back home, everyone said, 'Just wearing the sari? Where's the blouse? The petticoat?' That evening he went back and had a blouse made for me. He didn't have to give me any of this; I wouldn't have complained about what I had or didn't have. I was always prepared to make do with whatever I had or didn't have. All I'd ever wanted was love—nothing material at all.
The next day his father called me and said, 'I want to tell you something, and you must listen, you must do it. There's no exception to this.' I said, 'Yes, Father.' It was the same thing again. He was talking about going to the younger brother-in-law's house and touching their feet to ask for forgiveness.
I'd come to love my father-in-law dearly in those few days. I had been my father's precious daughter, and I came to think of him the same way. I said to him then, 'All right, Father. I'll do whatever you say. But could you tell me what my crime actually was…?' He said, 'Last Eid you hired goons—that was wrong. It's unforgivable. But I'm choosing to forgive.' I said, 'Father, your son was the one who called and called and brought people from my house. And those who came—they weren't my people. They weren't goons, Father.' But my words made no difference; he would not budge from his decision.
They had an L-shaped tin-roofed house. Two rooms facing east, one room facing north, and a room in the middle with three doors. They'd lock me in that middle room and go to the corner room facing east where they'd huddle together, scheming things that terrified me just to see.
The day passed. At night they put me to sleep in the far eastern room. Brutally hot. That room had an enormous fan. Steel. The kind that winnows rice. When you turn it on, the wind is like a storm. It was on. I lay there and said to him, 'All right, I'll let you all make me touch their feet if that's what you want. I will, since everyone's insisting. But you know…you're the one who called and called and brought my people here. You brought them and called them goons. I haven't breathed a word to anyone back home—not one word—that you all beat me. I've hushed the whole thing up. So what's my crime that I should touch their feet? Tell me. And not to the eldest sister-in-law, not to the in-laws, but to the younger sister-in-law's house, going there for the very first time!
It didn’t really hurt me, and my body wouldn’t rot if she touched my feet. Whatever she says, I’ll do it just like that. But have you ever thought — if she touches my feet without reason, what will happen to my devotion toward those people? Where will it end up?’
The moment I said this, she started talking nonsense, spouting illogical things left and right. We two were just standing there arguing while the fan ran. From the next room, Nithu caught wind of our conversation—half-heard, half-guessed—and got up from bed to fetch her grandmother and grandfather. They came rushing to the bedroom door and started making a scene. I got frightened. I opened the door. They all poured in and began hurling abuse at me as they pleased. I realized then—they’d been waiting for just such an opportunity. And now they had it.
At one point, I didn’t know what to do or say anymore. They were screaming and had gathered all the neighbors around. In the end, I stood there with my hands clasped, crying, saying I didn’t know what to say or do, please forgive me, it was my fault. But they didn’t just keep screaming—they started moving toward me to hit me too. A couple of them among the crowd were forcibly holding back the others as they lunged in my direction.
After much difficulty, everyone finally calmed down and left. But not before laying down a condition: I had to sleep with the door open. The door couldn’t be locked. So we left it open. We tried to sleep. Whatever the fight was about, I love him—that’s my final word. And sure enough, when we settled down to sleep, I rested my head on his chest, on his arm. I always used to say, ‘I slept like this as a child, on Mother’s arm. And now, on yours.’
The night passed. The next morning, Nihal told his father, ‘Dad, if I touch her feet, it’ll get complicated. So let’s skip that part.’ But by then, his younger sister already knew I was going to touch their feet at their house. In the meantime, Nihal’s father also said, ‘Yes, it’s getting complicated.’ And back home, all sorts of people kept arriving to hear about last night’s incident, while Nihal’s mother kept feeding them fabricated stories. Apparently, I was asking for a divorce, I’d brought goons before, and now I was planning to bring dacoits—all manner of nonsense.
Nihal called them and said, ‘We’re coming. I’ll just apologize.’ The moment his sister heard this, she screamed into the phone, ‘Don’t let that whore or whatever set foot in my house. I’m warning you. You can come if you want, otherwise don’t bother.’ After hearing this, Nihal’s conscience pricked him again. He told his mother he wouldn’t go either, because he himself had brought a girl into the house. If they wouldn’t let her in, if they spoke to her like that with curses, then he wouldn’t go either.
His father heard this and bellowed, ‘What did you just say! You won’t go? Your father will go. What does it matter to you whether some girl comes or goes? You have to go to their house for your sister’s sake!’
Frightened, Nihal agreed to go that very evening. But it was pouring rain outside, so the trip didn’t happen that day. It was decided they’d go the next morning instead.
The next day he went. He went alone and came back. After that, the younger sister and brother-in-law arrived with their only son. Whenever someone from outside or a new person visits, the mother-in-law makes a point of saying loudly in front of everyone, ‘Sanjida, go take a bath, I’ve turned on the tap, come on.’ And then she goes inside with the visitors and says all sorts of things. She has hearing problems—doesn’t hear well—so she thinks she’s speaking softly but actually speaks loudly.
Nihal hears it too, the same things I do. I look at his face; he understands and glances up toward the roof. He wants to hide something.
—
Then, the day before Eid, something happened. From morning Nihal had been wandering outside, restless. When I went in, he stayed out. When I went out, he came in. The whole day slipped away in work. By evening he was wandering the bazaar with his brother and friends, while the neighborhood children came to have alpona drawn on their hands by the new bride. I drew some for them. One little girl called me “Aunty.” Everyone else had been calling me “mami,” “kaki.” That “Aunty” pierced something in me when I heard it.
My brother’s daughter is the apple of my eye. I thought of her. My mind wouldn’t work anymore. My sister-in-law had been calling me for days now, asking: “Aunty, when will you come? Why won’t Asan talk to me? Please bring him. We’ve kept beef for you, and bagda prawns too.”
The thought of it all came flooding back, and I felt helpless. My heart was burning. But if I called Father’s house too often, they minded terribly. So I couldn’t call. Instead, I called Nihal several times. I sent him messages: “My heart is burning for Samina. Please, won’t you come home? I feel like I have no one. Everyone is a stranger. Please come home!”
He sent a message saying he’d be there in eight minutes. After fifteen or twenty minutes, I called again. He didn’t pick up—just cut the call and switched his phone off. My mad heart was burning to ash inside me. I told Nitu, “Ma, draw some more alpona, won’t you? My head is spinning. I’m going.” And I went to our room, when Nitu suddenly said out loud: “What? Already angry over nothing?”
I hadn’t expected her to say that. I laughed and said, “Oh, you silly thing! I’m just feeling strange. I’ll be back in a moment.” I went and lay down. My heart was burning terribly.
Nitu told the children to peek and see if I was angry. They all kept peeking. I sat up and smiled at them and said, “Come inside and sit.” But no one listened. Three hours later, Nihal came home. I fed everyone dinner. After eating, they all went to bed. Then I leaned close to Nihal and whispered, “Let’s go outside for a bit. My heart feels so heavy. Let’s talk somewhere quiet, just us.” He said, “Okay, let’s go.”
We slipped out quietly, the two of us. Outside, we sat on the grass. I spoke to him with a touch of reproach, from a place of claim and right: “Why did you take so long? Do you know how my heart was burning for home? Tomorrow is Eid. In my whole life, this is the first Eid without Mother and Father. But you’re here, at least. With you beside me, I don’t need anything else. That’s why I kept calling. And these were your eight minutes!” I saw he was in a sharp mood, not speaking to me the way my Nihal usually does. So I said, “Let’s go back to the room.”
I couldn’t open my heart to him. My insides had grown heavy. The next morning, Eid would arrive.
I left Dhaka saying, “Listen, I’ve given up everything—left Khulna, come all the way to Nardail—just to look at your face. Things got so complicated last Eid. Everyone’s probably angry with me. Please, just move around the house a bit, come and go. Then even if I work all day, I won’t feel tired.” She said, “Okay, I will.”
I wake at five in the morning, sweep the rooms, the veranda, the courtyard, then take all the dishes from yesterday’s three meals down to the well. My mother-in-law goes out to sweep the front yard and feed the cows and pigeons. After washing the dishes, I cut vegetables with her, start the cooking. Then I wash my hands and face. That’s what I did. After that, Nihal and his father will bathe and go to prayer, so I cook them vermicelli before they leave. There’s so much to do that day.
Before going to prayer, Nihal secretly called me over and, standing in the corner of the doorway, pressed a five-hundred-taka note into my hand after giving money to the children. I know his money is tight, so I didn’t want to take it. But thinking he might feel hurt, I took it, and later slipped it back into his wallet. He came home after prayers and a bit of wandering around. Then he went to sacrifice the goat. I’m the one who sharpened the knives and blades for Eid. They even had me cut the bamboo for the stand, make garlands for the goat, all of it. Some people said, “You’re getting your new daughter-in-law to do all this!” But I liked it, thinking I had to learn somehow.
On Eid day itself, I wore an old dress and spent the entire day—once sharpening knives and blades with Nihal’s father, once cutting meat and bones with Nihal. Then cutting meat with Nihal’s mother, cleaning intestines, starting the cooking—one task after another. No rest at all. Not once all day did anyone say, “Go bathe and put on a new sari.” I just kept working, one task after another. I thought, surely today I’ll win everyone’s hearts.
People come looking for meat. They arrive at the house but don’t find the bride. I’m working like a hired hand, just working away. In the evening, a woman came. A teacher from the government high school. She was dressed beautifully. She called me over, sat me beside her, and asked what I was doing, where I’d studied, what I wanted to do, where my home was—everything. After hearing it all, she praised me a lot. She was the one educated person I’d found in that house. She made many prayers for me. She said, “Time is just beginning. Study well for the BCS exam.” And she praised my work, my will to work, my sincerity a great deal.
Well, everything went well enough that day. I was so happy. I even forgot about my aunt-in-law, my parents. I thought, surely today everyone will at least say something kind about me because of my hard work all day, will take me a bit positively.
In the evening, my father-in-law went to keep the meat in his younger brother’s refrigerator. He went off fine enough. But the moment he came home, his mood had completely changed. He called me—called me and said, “Sanjida, I have something to tell you. And you must do it. There’s no discussion about this. And understand, talking won’t help.” I lowered my head and said, “Tell me, Father.”
He said, “Listen, your parents must come to our house by morning tomorrow. They must come. Otherwise, you won’t be able to go to Khulna. Once they’re here, they can take you. Otherwise, Nihal won’t go either, and you will never be able to go to Khulna.
They’ll stay here until they arrive. I don’t understand exams and all that. Besides, Nihal will go back to Dhaka—he has work.’
Her words hit me like a thunderbolt. You see, before I left Dhaka, my mother had called Nihal and asked, ‘Who should come to pick them up? Should I come, or your father-in-law, or your brother?’ Nihal had said, ‘There’s no need for you to come so early in the morning. I don’t have much leave. I won’t have time to go back and forth. Better yet, ask your brother and his wife to spend Eid here. From our end, both of us will come to Khulna four days after Eid. I’ll leave Sanjida here for a week and go back to Dhaka. A week later, either she’ll come on her own or I’ll go fetch her.’
So my uncle and aunt had gone to my father-in-law’s place as planned. Only my father and mother were home. My aunt and uncle couldn’t come—they were already there. And my father was seriously ill. In June 2017, he’d had a car accident and was in bad shape, both physically and mentally. He didn’t go anywhere. Someone had to accompany him even to the bathroom. In this situation, who was I supposed to call?
That night, before bed, I asked him again, ‘Please. Can we step outside for a moment? I need to talk to you.’ I wanted to go out because talking in the house the previous day had caused so much trouble. If we sat outside in the darkness at night, no one would hear us. Once outside, I told him what was on my mind. ‘Listen, what Father said has to be done, but I don’t know how to manage it. Help me figure this out. Even if they don’t know, you know everything.’
I saw him grow even more angry. ‘What! No one’s coming? Why shouldn’t they come? When did I ever say that nobody needs to come? Nothing—nothing—will happen outside of what Father says!’ He went on like this, furious. He was someone given to sweet talk and manipulation, the kind of thing you’d never expect. Nihal had a gift for reading which way the wind blew and holding his umbrella there. Whenever necessary, he could change his words and his face a dozen times without any effort. And now he was spinning these intricate tales—how much he’d done for me, how much he’d sacrificed, how much he’d suffered… how much more could he take? That sort of thing.
This time, I shot back, ‘I’ve made sacrifices too. I wore my sister-in-law’s Eid sari to my own wedding. I came alone on your say-so, didn’t bring anyone with me. Three days later, you and your siblings beat me, but I didn’t tell a soul. You called people from my house and then called them thugs. I didn’t even mind that. How can I possibly manage with one condition after another like this? Tell me.’
We were standing facing south. He’d taken me to the pond’s edge. In the two times I’d visited their house, he’d brought me here both times, at night. So I knew nothing beyond the house and the veranda. I didn’t even know there was a dumping ground next to the pond. The south wind was carrying our words back toward the house, but I didn’t notice. There was an older brother—someone who’d known about our relationship beforehand and had even suggested we marry in secret—that very brother was sitting behind us in the darkness, listening to every word. I had no idea.
Suddenly he stepped forward and said, ‘Sanjida, I’m that uncle of yours, remember? You talked to me on the phone.’ I was mortified. I couldn’t say a word.
She was quarreling with her brother—I hadn’t expected to encounter him in such a state. So without a word, I simply took Nihal and moved a little further away, saying nothing.
I was crying then. Nihal kept piling on the accusations and mental torture, as if he alone had made all the sacrifices, as if I had done nothing. His life had suffered so much because of me. I was nothing but a complete loss-project for him. These were the things he kept saying. Unable to bear it, I wept and thought, *What have I done for anyone! Oh God! What has become of me!* In my desperation, I once blurted out, “Should I hang myself from this tree then! I’m telling you, I’ll hang myself!” And they seized upon those words like weapons.
That’s when he suddenly shrieked that I was trying to lure him outside and commit suicide so I could drag all of them down with me. People gathered. Three or four women—neighbors from the adjoining rooms. We rushed into our room. His father came at me with raised hands. I grabbed at whoever I could reach, clasping their feet. Everyone was shouting and cursing. Some said, *Just one set of in-laws, can’t you manage them?* Others, *What kind of woman is this! What kind of wife!* Some said, *We thought she was decent!* Someone said, *This wife is mad!* Another, *This is what education gets you!* Do you want a divorce? Do you want to die? Do you want to die or drag us all down with you? All manner of things, said in that vein.
Not one of them spoke a word in my defense, not even stood neutral. A truly solitary person in this world is utterly alone. Defenseless—defenseless to their very bones. I remember that day when I kissed Nihal’s feet, begging for my life. They kept saying, *We don’t need even a minute to throw you into the gutter. Remember, this is Lakshmipur! Is one of your uncles in the army? Call him today! We’ll stuff your entire lineage into a sack!*
I understood then: all this time, everyone around me had spoken well of me, so they hadn’t had the chance. That day, having won by lying and turning everyone against me, they were making such a spectacle of this helpless creature—me. The foul language I heard that night—language so vile I’d never heard its like in all my life. The night stretched on and on like this.
The next morning, waking before dawn, shame consumed me so thoroughly I felt I would have crawled into a hole if one had existed. I couldn’t bear to look anyone in the face. And people kept arriving—in droves—to see the bride. I was in a state more wretched than any dog’s. That day I was like a deranged lunatic. As far as my eyes could see, there was no familiar face—not even the person whose hand I’d held when I left my father’s house would recognize me now. That morning, right after I woke, Nihal shut the door and beat me. I clenched my teeth and endured every blow in silence, didn’t utter a sound. While throwing a punch at me, he scraped his right hand slightly; I applied Dettol to it with cotton. Meanwhile, blood was pouring from my own nose, but I paid it no mind. My eyes, cheeks, face, lips—various parts of my body were swollen, and I think I was running a fever.
I sat in my in-laws’ house during Eid, wearing an old dress. People looked at me less like a bride than like some rare creature from a zoo—three times over, it seemed. And I, like a masterless dog, gazed with open mouth at whoever passed, searching in their faces for a morsel of pity, a hint of affection, a scrap of love.
His father called my mother.
On the phone, he was lashing my mother with harsh words, saying he would come to Noardail, settle my matter, and take me with him. My mother pleaded and explained everything, but it was no use. He was growing more abusive by the minute. For my sake, my mother had to endure his cruelty.
Yet despite all of this, not for a single second did I feel anger toward Nihal. It seemed to me that he was all the family I had left. At one point, I kissed his feet repeatedly to make him understand my helplessness. Then something human stirred within him. He went to his father and said, “Dad, in our neighborhood, so many people have married for love. Not one family has created this kind of mess afterward. Why are you all making life so difficult for us? Why does everyone have such a problem with the two of us? You all want me to divorce her anyway, don’t you? Then I won’t say another word. I’m giving her the divorce today.”
Saying this, he turned to me and said, “Come on, get ready.” Then he held me close, crying, “You fool! Nobody wants you! You’ll be so much better off. You’ll have my prayers with you. Come, I’ll set you free.” I wept bitterly in his arms. Just then his father came in and said, “You can give the divorce. But are you trying to wash your hands of your own sins? How dare you!”
The moment his father said this, Nihal screamed out, “What is happening in my house! What is happening!” Then, turning to me, he spat, “What kind of woman did I bring into my house! I did you a favor by bringing you here. Without me, would you have amounted to anything!” I pressed my veil into my mouth, fighting hard to suppress my sobs. But can one hold back the boundless wave of sorrow that rises from within? Still, I tried with all my might.
His father came again and announced, his younger daughter’s orders: no one would go to Khulna. From here, it would be straight to Dhaka. Not going to Khulna was final. They would not let us go to my father’s house. Even thinking about it now makes my heart turn black. If only I could have shown them, or if Allah had been swift with His judgment, perhaps then I could have found some peace! Regardless, after this, like a masterless dog, I could only stare at Nihal’s face. I could make sense of nothing anymore.
Meanwhile, Nihal’s father called my mother and said, “Sanjida and Nihal—neither of them will ever go to Khulna. From here, straight to Dhaka.” Hearing this, my mother finally lost her temper. She said, “I’ve explained everything to you. You people took the girl alone and started playing these games with her! If you keep playing, we’ll have to play too. Send my daughter and my son-in-law straight to my house.” With that, she hung up.
Now my father-in-law was furious, jumping around the house, hurling obscenities at my mother and me in the vilest language. And he was telling Nihal, “Put her alone on a bus and be done with this disaster. You’re not going. She will leave this house for good today. I will never bring her back to this house again.” And so on. Then Nihal said to me, “Listen, I’m going to leave you at my friend Kamal’s house today. And I’ll tell them I’ve put you on the Khulna bus. His parents aren’t home anyway—they’ve gone to India. He’s alone in the house. So no one will know.”
# From a Story
“I’ll tell them at home that you’ve left, and tomorrow when I say I’m going to Dhaka, I’ll slip away and bring you back to Khulna instead.” Whatever she said, I just kept nodding in agreement.
Nothing gets past the younger sister in this household. She came in, and the older sister arrived home with her too. This time they put me in the middle room. I sat there. That room had three doors. Two of them had bolts; one was just pushed shut—no bolt on it. Through that door, I had to pass through another room where they’d stationed Nitu.
I’d heard her sister say many times, “His father’s ill, her brother’s at the in-laws’—so where’s *her* brother-in-law then? Didn’t she have a cousin who was a brother-in-law?” Among all our cousins, each of us has just one—either a brother or a sister. None of us actually have a real brother-in-law. Whatever we are to one another, we’re all kind of brother-in-law and sister-in-law both. At my wedding, my father’s younger cousin served as my brother-in-law. He’s the one who handed me over to them—they were hinting at him with all this talk.
So there I was, in that room. My uncle—my father’s youngest cousin—called on the phone. He wanted to speak to Nihal. Nitu had already gone to bed. Suddenly I stepped out of the room, and she didn’t quite catch it. Looking for Nihal, I found him in the corner room. Nihal was lying down, and beside his head were his two sisters and his father—all three heads huddled together, plotting something. His mother has poor hearing, so they don’t usually involve her in their scheming.
The moment they saw me, all four heads jerked back as if they’d been caught doing something indecent, as if I’d walked in on them red-handed. I felt both terrified and ashamed. I turned around immediately and went back to my room, and they shut that last door behind me. Now I was locked inside alone, all three doors closed.
I lay there crying, sobbing uncontrollably. Then I pulled out an Agarwal book and wrote in it: “The one who loves more than a mother does is a demon!” Night fell. We went to bed again. By then I was thinking, let whatever happens, happen. He’s the only one who’s truly mine. A moment later he came to the room and started speaking in that detective-like manner of his. His voice sounded full of dread.
They would scheme that way always—heads pressed together—the kind of huddle I only ever saw as a child when playing games with my team, never since growing up. The slightest breeze and they’d turn it into a storm, Nitu used to say that. They’d judge people instantly without seeing the whole picture, without understanding anything. And they’d gang up on everything—good and bad alike—just like that. Once I told Nihal in passing, “The way you all gang up without any reason at all, you seem rather tribal to me somehow. I don’t know if I’m saying something wrong.” He just laughed without saying anything.
The next day they brought someone home—a cousin of sorts on his mother’s side. His name was Kishor, age forty-two, but he looked at most seventeen. He has two wives. The elder one is Muslim, the younger one was Hindu. But now neither of them practices any religion. Nobody prays. They say both of them love him madly, like he’s possessed them. Still, the two co-wives live in separate rooms.
There had never been a quarrel or discord between them.
In their house they kept twenty-eight royal geese, nineteen goats, three or four cows, thirty-two chickens, thirty or thirty-two ducks. Both daughters-in-law tended them together in perfect harmony. He had brought the younger one through some ritual or incantation. The girl had taken his fancy at first sight, and then he had done something—cast some spell or other with oil, perhaps. After that, the girl came running to him like one possessed. Since then, she had never gone back to her father’s house. Not once, all these years. And she had no wish to go. This was all told to me by the elder brother.
(To be continued…)