Revenge by Taslima Nasrin Read Free Book Online Page A

wife can’t eat if her husband does not.
    I resumed trying to mollify Haroon, running my fingers through his hair, stroking his face, asking him over and over again why he was so sad. Instead of answering, he jerked away in disgust, threw my hand off, and turned to the wall, his silence beating at me like a hammer. I still longed for Haroon to behave like Dipu had when he discovered Shipra was pregnant, dancing around with anticipation. Looking at Haroon, I felt sad and frightened, as if my heart were about to explode.

    I couldn’t bear it any longer. Leaving his bedside, I wandered to the window where I always sought refuge. It did not fail me, and I stayed there until well past midnight, staring into the night. Haroon did not call me to bed, but I knew that he wasn’t sleeping, that all night he wouldn’t sleep a wink.

5
    A s I packed his lunch the next morning, I asked Haroon again why he was so melancholy. He said nothing. “Why are you making me suffer like this?” I asked. Without a word, he put his tie on, as if no task required more effort than tying a Windsor knot. I couldn’t stop asking myself if I’d done something to deserve this silent treatment, but I could think of nothing. How was it that Haroon was unhappy even though I was pregnant with his child? I went back to our room after he left, and I went to the bathroom and began to weep. Just as I emerged, wiping away my tears, Amma stepped into our room.
    “Why has Haroon left without breakfast?” she asked.
    “I cannot tell you, Amma. I tried to make him eat.”
    “And he wouldn’t?”
    “No.”
    “And you have no idea what’s the matter with him?”
    “I haven’t a clue. I have asked him many times what’s wrong, and he won’t say a thing.”
    “Have you quarreled?”
    “No,” I answered feebly, my eyes focused on the ground.

    “My boy is so good-natured! Just leave him alone, and he’ll smile again,” Amma said, closing the door behind her as she left the room.
    I could hear her heavy steps in the hallway, but all I could do was hang my head. Amma had not asked whether I had eaten or if I was hurt by her son’s behavior. Here she was, without knowing I was pregnant, advising me how to keep her son happy. I mustn’t do anything to annoy him. I must please him. My proper place was at his feet. If I did not please my husband, I could be subjected to the serpent’s sting, forced to swallow bile, burned in the fires of hell.
    I remained in the kitchen the whole morning. Rosuni cut the vegetables and Sakhina scrubbed the pots and pans. At lunch Amma looked at my plate and sighed. “Poor Haroon, he must be starving!” I pushed my plate away and got up, leaving my food untouched.
    “I don’t feel like eating,” I lied. “I’ll wait until your son comes home.” A smile of satisfaction crossed Amma’s face. The ground shifted under my feet; it was as if I stood at the edge of a deep abyss. Of course it would hardly have been comfortable trying to eat in her presence, given my belief that I was the root of all of her son’s problems, and, by extension, all of hers. All that afternoon, to distract myself, I went about the household with increased dedication. I prepared tea for Abba and rubbed coconut oil into the parting of Amma’s hair. As I drew her hair into a chignon, she told me stories of her youth, when the neighbors came crowding to catch a glimpse of her long luxurious hair, which fell to her knees in silky waves the color of obsidian.

    Soon it was time for Haroon to come home. I reminded myself of Amma’s injunction—to keep Haroon happy no matter what. She was undoubtedly wishing me well when she advised me to cook what he liked best, to dress and do my hair in a way that would remind him of the girl he married; and never, never to rebuff him in the bedroom. “It’s not difficult, you know, for an intelligent woman like you to keep her husband happy!” she exclaimed.
    I dressed myself in the Kancheepuram sari, the