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In the morning light, the magic of the night had been taken away, and the light of day had taken its place. I woke first, my head still on his chest, the steady beat of his heart, a soothing illusion over the harsh truth of my life. I allowed myself to live in that comforting little cocoon for a few moments. I traced his chest with my finger, feeling his skin. He stirred, tightening his arms around me and I knew he was awake as well.
We both remained silent.
Eventually, the outside world intruded. The sound of a neighbour's car starting and the distant call of a vendor. I whispered, "I have to get ready for school."
He didn't let me go immediately. He simply just held me closer. "I know," he said to me, softly in my ears. Then, with a sigh that seemed to be as heavy as our situation, he let me go.
I got out of his bed, my body throbbing with pain and pleasure. As I picked my clothes up from the floor, I felt his gaze on me while I put them on. It was not awkward but instead quite a touching sense of loss. Not only was I leaving his room, but I was going back to a way of life I no longer recognized.
It was a day in school that was really a self-deception day. I was on my feet in front of a class of young girls teaching them poetry and history, while my own life is now a scandalous, unwritten novel. The more I saw their innocent hopeful faces, the more I felt guilty. I should've been a role model, I should've been a guide. Rather, I was a woman who lived a lie, a lie that had a taste of my husband's brother.
When I arrived at the house, it was a different place. It was no more a prison. It held a secret that was shared. He was in the kitchen, in the process of making tea. He came around when he heard me and the look in his eyes was all I needed. This was a moment of free control; of intimacy with one another. He gave me a cup, his fingers touching my fingers. "Was it a bad day?" he asked. "They're good girls," I said, making my voice lower. I said, "They need to have a better teacher."
"I know you're a good teacher, Zeenat. You're just... living a complicated life." he mentioned.
The next few days became a new, delicate rhythm. No more ghosting; we were co-conspirators. The house was our place of refuge. My classroom was the setting for my acting as the proper and upright teacher.
This was a shocking contrast. When it came to school work, I was Zeenat Parveen, the lowly hardworking teacher. At night, in the silent of our house, I was his; a woman learning of a passion, and a love that she never knew. Not only did we have sex, but we had a sexual language. I was not the meek and docile girl of my former days in his arms. No, I wasn't that dutiful, miserable wife. I was just Zeenat, a woman that was looked at and desired for what she was. He loved my body tenderly and he loved me with fierce passion, I felt alive for the first time in my life. We explored each other with urgency, as if we were on a stake through our hearts, knowing that this beautiful and fragile world we had created could be destroyed at any moment. I changed so much and so suddenly and so fearfully. The conservative girl I was waning away and a woman was emerging that challenged all the rules I had been convinced of before.
This newfound confidence, that comes from Danish's love, began to seep into my public life.
At an afternoon meeting with the staff, the idea of extra-curricular activities was discussed. The principal, Mrs. Desai, a progressive lady, said that the nearby boys' high school was needing a female teacher to co-judge their annual debate competition. "It would be a chance for inter-school collaboration," she said looking around the room. "Any volunteers?"
Typically, I would have had my eyes low, my hands folded in my lap. I'd have been in panic mode if I thought of meeting boys, more specifically mixed gender groups.
However, on that day, things changed. I remembered the girl I once was, who was never given permission to talk to a boy. I thought of the woman I would be, the one loved so much by a man that sees her soul. In a small rebellious part of me I wanted to fill that gap.
To my own surprise I heard myself say, "I can do it."
All the heads in the room turned to look at me. Mrs. Desai's expression was a mixture of astonishment and euphoric happiness. "Excellent, Ms. Parveen, I'll provide you with the details." My pulse was racing and there was a thrill in me. I had volunteered.
I was in the world I had been denied my whole life.
On the day of a debate competition, I was in a panic. I wore a basic but elegant cream coloured shalwar kameez which was neatly draped without covering my face.
I felt Danish's eyes on me as I left. "You'll be great," he said, and he meant it, it gave me courage. "Just be yourself."
It was a different world at the boys' school. There was plenty of movement and noise in the air. Lots of boys around, laughing and shouting, running. I could see that they were watching me as I came to the auditorium. I would have shrunk a month ago under their looks. I was now proud that I had my head up. I was a teacher. I had a purpose. I was sitting with two other judges, one from the boys' school, and one from a local college.
The discussion was passionate and sagacious. The young boys on stage were very confident and well-expressed. I didn't only scrutinize their points of view, but also observed them as people. There were some who were arrogant, and some who were nervous, a few who were passionate. It was just boy's stuff. Not like the ones I was taught to hate and fear.
Following the competition, at the refreshment table, a boy approached me named Rohan. He was one of the debaters; a tall, confident boy with a big smile on his face. With respect, he said, "Ma'am. Thank you for your feedback, it was very insightful.
"You are indeed a good speaker, Rohan," I said with a sincere smile. "You have a bright future." We conversed for several minutes on his arguments and his plan to become a lawyer. He was sweet and clever.
I felt a strange and very unfamiliar flutter as I walked away. Not the from-the-heart type of relationship I had with Danish. It was something more trivial, more superficial.
It was the plain and simple enjoyment of being seen and appreciated by an attractive, young man.
It had been a boost to my ego, a confirmation that the new me, the woman who awakened, could live in the outside world. That evening, I shared with Danish, my tale of Rohan. Lying in his bed, intertwined, we were. I started, "There was this boy," I said, a bit shy. He was very confident, came up to talk to me. It was a brief pause for Danish to remain silent. I could feel him tighten his arm around me, there was something in his body. "And?" he asked in a neutral tone. I turned to him, "Nothing. We just talked. But it felt... strange. Good. To be seen like that. Not as 'bhabhi,' not as a teacher, but just as a woman."
He looked at me; his eyes scanning my face in the dim light. I noticed that there was something glaring there -- jealousy, perhaps, or fear? However, this was soon replaced with a deep and abiding love. "You are a woman, Zeenat. A beautiful, intelligent woman. The whole world should see you that way." He then kissed me, a kiss that was both possessive and permissive.
He was like he loved me so much he didn't want to bound me even if it was a little scary. I had an opening in myself at that moment. The attraction I felt for Rohan, was a seed.
It was everything with Danish--my heart, my soul, my body. Yet the joyful sensation of being noticed by another male; the straightforward, alluring smile, was a powerful feeling.
I began to take a new look at the world. Every morning I would see men walking down the street as I walked to school. I'd wonder about them, creating tales in my mind. I started watching how men are. I became an observer of men. I like the attitude of a businessman, the toughness of a construction worker, the soulfulness of a young man with a guitar.
At home, I started to have a growing bond with Danish. He was my home; he was my safe haven. It was a passionate intensity, a desperate urgency to catch a lifetime of love in our stolen moments--our nights were full of it. However, a new part of me was coming into existence during the day. An interesting section. The world had gained a third dimension, and it was a landscape of duty and obligation, which took the form of a flat plane. All of the streets, all of the bustling markets, all of the classrooms were now full of potential.
It was as if I had the curiosity of an anthropologist and was watching people. But it was no longer a matter of men; it was the subtle, mysterious way of attraction that I had never noticed in my life. Things with my Danish changed. He was no longer only my lover but now my companion, my help in this new world.
One night in the middle of clearing the dinner table I informed him about a new peon at the school: a young man with an almost piercing stare, who was always holding the door a little too long for me. "There's a look in his eyes," I said, "it's not disrespectful. It's... assessing. Like he's trying to figure me out."
Danish stopped, holding a plate in his hand. He didn't look angry. "What should he find out, what do you want him to find out? he asked with careful evenness. The question was sharper than I wished it to be. "I don't know," I said while washing the glass, "that's it -- I've never been watched like this before; not as Zeeshan's wife, not as 'bhabhi.' Just like me."
He set the plate down and stood behind me with his hands on my waist. He placed his chin on my shoulder, his warmth a comfort in the new and cold curiosity I had. "Look, Zeenat," he murmured in my ear. "You are beautiful, you are smart, you're walking around differently, you shouldn't be surprised that the world is now seeing what I've always seen."
I surrendered myself to him in his arms. He looked at my face, and he saw love and fear. "I want to keep you just in front of me all the time," he said with his thumb on my cheek, "a part of me, the selfish part of me, wanted to lock you me away where only I could see you. But a bigger of me understands you better". I fell in love with the woman who was trapped, who was yearning. I can't be the guy that builds her a new, prettier cage.
His words were a balm and a challenge together. He was letting me discover this new part of me. It was a fearful and thrilling liberties that were granted.
One week later, Mrs Desai invited me into her office. She started by saying, "Zeenat," holding her stack of files in her hand on the desk, "I was amazed by the way you handled the debate competition at the boys' school. The feedback from the boys' school was really good. "Thank you, Mrs. Desai, I enjoyed it," I said. "Good," she replied with a smile. "A have another opportunity for you. The literary society in the city is holding a weekend workshop on modern poetry. It's a mixed of university students, professors, and some selected high school teachers, and they need a female educator's point of view. I immediately thought of you."
My heart pounded in my chest. A weekend away with strangers. A man and woman talking together about art. It's what I'd read about in novels, it was the kind of life for a different Zeenat, a different fiction. I said, "I... I don't know....," my old self came out in a panic. "It's a whole weekend, I have responsibilities..." "Your husband will understand," Mrs. Desai said briefly, as if my hesitation was not warranted. "This is excellent for your professional development. Think of it, Zeenat. Networking, new ideas. It could be very good for you." I couldn't tell that my husband was thousands of miles away, and that at home my only 'responsibility' was his brother, the guy that I was having an affair with.
"Is it okay if I... if I tell you tomorrow?" I asked, I said my voice was little. "Of course," she replied, her smile never faltered. "But I am really hoping you will say yes."
The house was alive the night with an electric feeling. So, when I had entered his room, and the door was closed, and the outside world was behind us. He was already in bed reading and he looked up on seeing me, realizing that I was agitated.
He put down his book and asked, "What is it? I sat by the edge of the bed, my hands turning the dupatta in my hands. Mrs. Desai says, "Go to a weekend workshop for the literary society, in the city. "He was silent for a while. The only noise was the sound of a ceiling fan. Finally, he asked, "When?" "Next month. It's Friday to Sunday." He raised himself on to his feet and the sheet gathered at his waist. He looked... calculating. "And you want to go?" "I don't know," I whispered, the truth overpowering me.
Then he reached out and took my hand in his strong one. "You should go," he said, his voice implying that there was no arguing with him. I stared at him, astonished. "Just like that? You're not... worried?"
"I'm worried, of course," he said, his voice husky. "I am concerned about you being alone, I am concerned about what you will see when you meet people, I am concerned that you will find out there are so many worlds out there and this... this thing we have... isn't enough."
"Sure, it's more than enough, Danish," I felt, my heart ached for him. "Is it?" he said, his eyes glowing. "Or is it just the start? Zeenat, you were a bird in a cage, I let you out so you can learn to use your own wings. This workshop is not about poetry, it's about you, it's your first real flight, you have to take it."
I cried and my eyes turned wet. He was right. It was a test. Not for him, but for me. For the woman I became. "I promise," I said, my voice thick with emotion, "I'll be back."
"Yes, I know," he said and wrapped me in his arms. "But when you are away you don't have to be my Zeenat, you can just be Zeenat. See what that feels like."
The preceding month was a strange time in between. We held hands tightly and loved each other even more than we had before, knowing we were soon to be torn apart. Now it was not merely a matter of passion, but of remembrance. I traced him, he traced me, he made an outline of my body that he could carry with him, and I traced his, I learned the way he put his hands on me, the way his jaw dropped, the way his breath came out in the dark.
When I was packing my little suitcase on the day I left, he was standing at the door watching me. He didn't help. All he did was stand there, a comforting weight. When I was ready, I turned to him. Wearing simple navy blue shalwar kameez with hair loose.
I was in a sense a stranger to myself. Quietly he said, "You look beautiful."
"Thank you for... for this," I said, gesturing at the suitcase, at myself. He came up to me and put his hands on my face. He looked into my eye and said, "Just promise me one thing. No matter what, no matter how you feel, just be honest with yourself that's all I ask." I whispered, "I will." He bent over and kissed me. It was not a kiss of passion, but of goodbye. There was a kiss of release. A letting go. He whispered into my lips, "go, fly."
The journey by taxi to the city was like crossing an ocean. The streets of our town were familiar, and now they were part of a large, anonymous city. The hotel is modern and sleek, a world of glass and steel. I was on the tenth floor, where I could see a dizzying grid of lights. I was alone. It was the first time in years that I was left completely alone.
Welcome reception was held on the first evening. I went into the hotel ballroom and my heart was racing, and I had a glass of juice that was like a weapon. People conversed, chatted and laughed, the intellectual energy hummed in the room. There were groups of young men in nice jeans, women in sharp western dresses and older, respected professors. Wearing the simple shalwar kameez, I was an outsider, the dupatta was a small shield. So, I went to a corner and made myself very small and drank my juice and watched.
I was suddenly overcome with a longing for Danish that was almost tangible. He would have known what to say, how to get through this. He would have been at my side.
As I was thinking of going to my room, someone approached me. He was tall and kind and had silver hair at his temples and had glasses and his eyes were crinkly. He had a wine glass in his hands. "You seem a bit lost around here," he said, his tone as if to a child. "Are you one of the high school teachers?" I couldn't say anything at all, I just nodded. He extended his hand. "I'm Vikram," he said. "I'm a professor at the university."
I grasped his hand; it was hard and dry. I managed to get out "Zeenat" barely a whisper. His eyes crinkled at the smile on his lips, "Zeenat," he repeated. "A pretty name," he said adding, "don't look so frightened, we all just love books here, no one will bite."
He was charismatic and his approachability was off-guard. He wasn't staring at me like the peon did, in a raw, assessing look. He was not gazing at me like Rohan had, with the flirting of a young man. He was trying to look at me, and he was looking at me with a very curious open look, almost like a person was just looking at an individual. I said, "I'm not used to... this." He replied, grinning, "don't worry, you get used to it. Or you learn to ignore it.... Who is the poet that brought you here Zeenat?"
The question was straightforward, to the point and it rooted me. I said 'Ghalib', the name like a touchstone. "And... Faiz."
He said, "Excellent choices. I think some of the modernists don't have that depth." I'm going to present a paper tomorrow about how post-colonial trauma is affecting contemporary Urdu poetry, which I'm afraid is as dry as it sounds." "That sounds fascinating," I said, "and I really meant it.
We chatted for about half an hour. Vikram was a natural teacher, who could explain everything in a very lucid and interesting manner in the field of literature. He didn't talk down to me. He took my own perspective, based on numerous years of teaching teenage girls, and took the time to hear me. I was a peer. I was Zeenat, the teacher about Ghalib's thinking.
The following day was filled with lectures and discussions. I had sat in a comfortable chair in a conference room, and had my pen in my hand and my mind ticking with ideas as I listened to Vikram's talk.
There was a breakout session in the afternoon. I was in a small group with two young university students, Kabir, cynical boy, his poet's brooding intensity, and Aisha, a bright bubbly girl with an emphasis on the latter word, and Mrs. Joshi, a middle-aged woman who taught at a convent school, quietly and kindly. The theme of the presentation was "The Personal and the Political in Modern Love Poetry. Kabir courted them and said that all contemporary love is performative and political. Aisha responded with a counterattack against the untouched, undiluted love. My hands were tight in my lap while I took in what they were saying. It was a lesson to me throughout my life that my whole life was in line with Kabir's. My love of Danish started in a political and familial setting and was enacted in the clandestine corners of our house. When my turn came upon speaking, my voice trembled, but my words did not. "Perhaps the most personal love is the love that has to be political," I said, "and I think of our stolen moments and our secret. Maybe it's not about its freedom at all, but its dangers in expressing it."
Kabir looked at me and softened his expression to one of grudging respect. Aisha beamed at me. Even Mrs Joshi nodded. I had spoken. I had contributed.