Nasima:
This house was so small when she wanted to hide somewhere and so big when she was looking for something. The juxtaposition of fate and destiny always surprised her. But then, they weren't juxtaposed in her case. They both worked against her.
Many years ago she had started to collect the trousseau of a daughter in hopes of having one. But no daughter came along. Only sons! Men, men and more men. As if one man wasn't enough for her. She was given six sons. In a life that lacked romance and love anyway, the presence of six men and their ever-elusive father caused a wall around her of square jaws, deep voices and huge egos. There was nothing to soften the overall effect of the masculinity that bred through this house. If only there was a girl, it would all have looked and felt different.
She passed by the room that her husband liked to occupy when he was visiting them. He was a very busy man. Whoever would listen would be regaled with stories of a never-ending hustle that had resulted in this big house and many cars. He took pride in being a man's man. So much of who he was screamed of all that she had come to hate about men that it was a good thing they maintained separate rooms since her youth. Sex was earned in her book. He never earned it. So she had stopped having it with him. He punished her by sleeping with other women. She didn't regret any of it. Time had taught her to be her own person. Sex was a small price to pay for her principles of truth and honesty. She wasn't lonely without him. Just by herself. And she liked it that way.
A tall portrait of her wedding day still adorned her bedroom. Her small body looked even smaller next to his rather gigantic build. His arm lay possessively across her shoulders. It looked like she was shrinking underneath his arm. Her eyes were low, her mouth downturned, her brow clear. No human expression occupied her human face. She wore the classic look of the modest Pakistani Muslim bride as was taught to her. Vapid, detached, plastic. This portrait demonstrated a man who had won a trophy. And a woman who was the trophy. In the game of love and tragedy, tragedy had won. She was married to a man just like her father. Her father had chosen him for her thinking that she wanted to marry someone like him.
That's the problem with bad men, she sighed as she moved along, they think they're good.
She sat down in the chair opposite her dressing table. Her thinly-lined face still had remnants of a once beautiful virgin. She had always been thin, bordering on emaciated after each son's birth, her rapid weight loss a combination of postpartum depression and lack of sleep. Then she'd gain weight miraculously to attain a slightly healthier appearance. The powers that be always made sure she looked like the happy mother of six sons. So she always landed on her feet.
Looking for girls for her chauvinistic sons wasn't a mean feat. They all wanted young, nubile, barely legal girls. Just like their father! So much embarrassment had already come her way because of them. They'd like one girl and later, would like her sister. It was like a revolving door of girls for them. Parents, the ever poor parents of most girls, gave in to her sons' whims. Some parents were better equipped with the tools to say no. But usually, her sons got their way.
She opened the window. It always got suffocating around this hour in the house. The universal hour of men coming home, five o'clock. Soon this house would be swarming with seven men. There would be a stench of sweat and entitlement in the air. They'd ask for food, throw a few tantrums at the quality of the food, expect tea after dinner, watch mindless movies on TV, comment on how scantily-dressed women were destined to hell and call it a day.
Someone opened the gate and she knew the peace was going to be done for the day. It was probably Arshad. But really, it could've been any one of them. They were all the same. Loud, brusque, temperamental, aggressive. They were all insufferable. They were all tall and domineering. They were all men.
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