You learn so much about culture through fiction. I 'm not an acomplished writer but thought of sharing my passion for fiction wityh others . Some of the short stories were written under pressure to meet deadlines Or Because I was iin a hurry to w
rap them up. Id on't wholeheartedly subscibe to 'writing is 99 % perspiration &1% inspiration. I wrote when I had time and hardly edit it because I wasn't writing for an audience or to for publication. It ws most of the time to expiate or exhale. SO I acknowledge the imperfections, the inacuuracies and grammar mistakes
rap them up. Id on't wholeheartedly subscibe to 'writing is 99 % perspiration &1% inspiration. I wrote when I had time and hardly edit it because I wasn't writing for an audience or to for publication. It ws most of the time to expiate or exhale. SO I acknowledge the imperfections, the inacuuracies and grammar mistakes Indian Song
In Indian file, heads lowered and eyes downcast, they streamed inside the tiny room. Silently they knelt, kissed the childlike face and left as quietly as they had entered. He rushed, brushing aside held-out hands and looked down at the once pink face turned pale. As his lips touched the cold forehead, a tear formed, ran down and froze round his curved lips. He felt someone mutter something, but the words seemed to come from another world. Then someone he didn’t know hugged him and started crying like a baby. Oddly enough, he found myself offering solace instead of receiving it.
They had been waiting for his small family all day long. Now that they were here, they were in a hurry to wrap up the macabre business. Helplessly he watched as they stripped his father, washed, oiled, perfumed and shrouded him. Close by a sister was wailing, her body rocking of its own accord.
What struck him, as the procession headed toward the cemetery, was that everything was done in a hurry. The mourners were almost running, as if the corpse were a plague, the sooner buried the better. Indeed the gravediggers had already dug a two-meter by 30-centimetre hole and had been awaiting the family arrival in the morning drizzle. Again the same frenzy. They snatched the corpse from the mourners, dropped him in the grave upon which they piled up stones, as if afraid he might change his mind and wake up.
Back home he looked helplessly on as relatives, friends and neighbours offered comfort. ``He’s been a good man’’; `` he was generous, easy-going, the paragon of kindness.” So commentaries ran and heads nodded in approval. As he stood apart from the throng of mourners, he was befuddled and jealous at the same time. These people were closer to his Dad than me. His sense of humour, his legendary forbearance, the purse full of coins for the dozen beggars and the tea rituals to which he invited his apprentices, the barber and shopkeeper on a daily basis, were unknown to him.
His Dad belonged to everybody and was associated with the city; in the way one associates the Eiffel Tower with Paris or Big Ben with London. When he arrived in the small town in the late 40s, it had a population of a few hundred people who lived in huts and thatched houses. The few French residents lived in the European district, in a world of their own. He was the best carpenter in town. The secret of his success was to have learnt the trade from a Frenchman. With his brother, he put up more school tiles than anyone else within a 250-mile radius. The clients liked and respected him because he was a man of honour. “ He who cheats does not belong in the community of believers,” he used to say, paraphrasing one of the prophet’s hadiths. He transmitted his craft to a generation of carpenters, some of whom had now their own shops and were training others; others had left town and lived under western skies. All would kiss his hand or head when they paid him a visit. They wholeheartedly believed in the proverbial wisdom of their folks. “He who teaches me a word, I become his slave.”
That same evening the house began to fill with guests. In Morocco even death is a cause for celebration. The rooms were packed with mourners and Fkihs. Tea was served, incense burned and Koranic verses recited. Only the arrival of a new guest and the perfunctory “Salam Alaikom” would interrupt the droning voices. Occasionally the Fkihs would take a break to drink more tea, backbite and exchange titbits of copious meals at old funerals.
Again he felt like a stranger among these people who were extolling his father’s legendary patience, his magnanimity and yet laughing with the insouciance of the blasé. His alienation heightened when a washbasin was passed around as a prelude for the meal. There was an unusual commotion, as some guests used elbows to secure a comfortable seat, and others adjusted their Jellabahs and rolled up their sleeves. Soon they milled around the tables, dipped their fingers in the plates, and tore the meat to pieces. When the dish was removed only the carcasses of chickens were left in the clay platter. When couscous arrived, the Fkihs rolled the semolina into balls and sent them whirling into gaping mouths. Except for an occasional witty remark or anecdote, everybody’s attention was riveted on the food. When they had finished eating, they belched, snorted and rubbed their greasy fingers on black bushy beards. They were true to their reputation of hearty eaters.
More tea was served and the Koran recited until a Fkih gave the much-awaited signal in a language known only to his closed circle. Then the lead Fkih cleared his throat and began to laud the deceased man’s virtues. “Tonight we are united to celebrate an exceptional man. Let’s rejoice, for he is in Heaven with the chosen ones.” The Fkih went on, in the same vein, imploring God to forgive my his Dad’s few sins and to fructify his good deeds. Then it was the turn of guests to hand the Fkih a 50 or 100 Dirhams to bless a dead parent or to pray for the return of the prodigal son.
When everyone had left, he tried to compute his father’s existence and found the picture amounting to scraps and bits. He closed his eyes and saw himself at seven or eight walking with him to the movies. Once a week he would take him to watch an Indian film. The ritual went on for a few years and the movies turned me into a sensitive kid. He remembers his sister wrapping him up in a sari-like cotton sheet and asking him to act out a scene from a popular film. Then he would sing and dance to the amusement of his small audience.
There was also the time when he had to go to college in another town. He would ride with his father on his motorbike to catch a 4 a.m. bus. In fact it was the only bus. Rain or shine, he never complained. The more he remembered his good deeds, the more he felt a lump rise in his throat until he almost choked.
Even when he was married and financially secure, he would insist on paying for outings, or on buying gifts for the kids. When he tried to protest, the father would say, “As long as I have, I will give.” That beat him.
He woke up from my revelry at the sound of hooves on the tarmac. The day-market was about to start. Wagons with their loads of sheep and humans prodded on at the break of dawn. And since he’s a light sleeper, the wagons had become his alarm when he spent a night at home. H rose up, opened the window and inhaled the early morning breeze. A stray dog lay asleep in the middle of the road, not far from a tramp, huddled around an empty cheap alcohol bottle. Horse dung, waste paper and plastic bags were everywhere. Suddenly he felt mounting disgust and had to struggle not to throw up. With the death of his father the city had lost whatever attraction it had held for me. In its ugliness it seemed to me like a cheap hooker after a busy night with a military regiment.
He packed the few things he had brought with him and woke his mom to bid her goodbye. As he hit the road and left the city behind, he found himself humming an old familiar tune. For a second, he frowned, thinking it unbecoming of someone just bereaved to be enjoying himself. A few minutes later he started tapping the steering wheel for tempo when the words came out piecemeal, “Oumi hibouba oumihi jaki hoba…” It was one of his favourite Indian songs and one more invaluable legacy of his Dad. He didn’t understand all the words, but the message was all that mattered: Despite trials and tribulations, pain and loss, love will triumph in the end. When he remembered one of his father’s witty remarks--those who are in a hurry, die young, he slowed down and went on humming, “oumi hibouba…”
Marrakech June 2005
In Indian file, heads lowered and eyes downcast, they streamed inside the tiny room. Silently they knelt, kissed the childlike face and left as quietly as they had entered. He rushed, brushing aside held-out hands and looked down at the once pink face turned pale. As his lips touched the cold forehead, a tear formed, ran down and froze round his curved lips. He felt someone mutter something, but the words seemed to come from another world. Then someone he didn’t know hugged him and started crying like a baby. Oddly enough, he found myself offering solace instead of receiving it.
They had been waiting for his small family all day long. Now that they were here, they were in a hurry to wrap up the macabre business. Helplessly he watched as they stripped his father, washed, oiled, perfumed and shrouded him. Close by a sister was wailing, her body rocking of its own accord.
What struck him, as the procession headed toward the cemetery, was that everything was done in a hurry. The mourners were almost running, as if the corpse were a plague, the sooner buried the better. Indeed the gravediggers had already dug a two-meter by 30-centimetre hole and had been awaiting the family arrival in the morning drizzle. Again the same frenzy. They snatched the corpse from the mourners, dropped him in the grave upon which they piled up stones, as if afraid he might change his mind and wake up.
Back home he looked helplessly on as relatives, friends and neighbours offered comfort. ``He’s been a good man’’; `` he was generous, easy-going, the paragon of kindness.” So commentaries ran and heads nodded in approval. As he stood apart from the throng of mourners, he was befuddled and jealous at the same time. These people were closer to his Dad than me. His sense of humour, his legendary forbearance, the purse full of coins for the dozen beggars and the tea rituals to which he invited his apprentices, the barber and shopkeeper on a daily basis, were unknown to him.
His Dad belonged to everybody and was associated with the city; in the way one associates the Eiffel Tower with Paris or Big Ben with London. When he arrived in the small town in the late 40s, it had a population of a few hundred people who lived in huts and thatched houses. The few French residents lived in the European district, in a world of their own. He was the best carpenter in town. The secret of his success was to have learnt the trade from a Frenchman. With his brother, he put up more school tiles than anyone else within a 250-mile radius. The clients liked and respected him because he was a man of honour. “ He who cheats does not belong in the community of believers,” he used to say, paraphrasing one of the prophet’s hadiths. He transmitted his craft to a generation of carpenters, some of whom had now their own shops and were training others; others had left town and lived under western skies. All would kiss his hand or head when they paid him a visit. They wholeheartedly believed in the proverbial wisdom of their folks. “He who teaches me a word, I become his slave.”
That same evening the house began to fill with guests. In Morocco even death is a cause for celebration. The rooms were packed with mourners and Fkihs. Tea was served, incense burned and Koranic verses recited. Only the arrival of a new guest and the perfunctory “Salam Alaikom” would interrupt the droning voices. Occasionally the Fkihs would take a break to drink more tea, backbite and exchange titbits of copious meals at old funerals.
Again he felt like a stranger among these people who were extolling his father’s legendary patience, his magnanimity and yet laughing with the insouciance of the blasé. His alienation heightened when a washbasin was passed around as a prelude for the meal. There was an unusual commotion, as some guests used elbows to secure a comfortable seat, and others adjusted their Jellabahs and rolled up their sleeves. Soon they milled around the tables, dipped their fingers in the plates, and tore the meat to pieces. When the dish was removed only the carcasses of chickens were left in the clay platter. When couscous arrived, the Fkihs rolled the semolina into balls and sent them whirling into gaping mouths. Except for an occasional witty remark or anecdote, everybody’s attention was riveted on the food. When they had finished eating, they belched, snorted and rubbed their greasy fingers on black bushy beards. They were true to their reputation of hearty eaters.
More tea was served and the Koran recited until a Fkih gave the much-awaited signal in a language known only to his closed circle. Then the lead Fkih cleared his throat and began to laud the deceased man’s virtues. “Tonight we are united to celebrate an exceptional man. Let’s rejoice, for he is in Heaven with the chosen ones.” The Fkih went on, in the same vein, imploring God to forgive my his Dad’s few sins and to fructify his good deeds. Then it was the turn of guests to hand the Fkih a 50 or 100 Dirhams to bless a dead parent or to pray for the return of the prodigal son.
When everyone had left, he tried to compute his father’s existence and found the picture amounting to scraps and bits. He closed his eyes and saw himself at seven or eight walking with him to the movies. Once a week he would take him to watch an Indian film. The ritual went on for a few years and the movies turned me into a sensitive kid. He remembers his sister wrapping him up in a sari-like cotton sheet and asking him to act out a scene from a popular film. Then he would sing and dance to the amusement of his small audience.
There was also the time when he had to go to college in another town. He would ride with his father on his motorbike to catch a 4 a.m. bus. In fact it was the only bus. Rain or shine, he never complained. The more he remembered his good deeds, the more he felt a lump rise in his throat until he almost choked.
Even when he was married and financially secure, he would insist on paying for outings, or on buying gifts for the kids. When he tried to protest, the father would say, “As long as I have, I will give.” That beat him.
He woke up from my revelry at the sound of hooves on the tarmac. The day-market was about to start. Wagons with their loads of sheep and humans prodded on at the break of dawn. And since he’s a light sleeper, the wagons had become his alarm when he spent a night at home. H rose up, opened the window and inhaled the early morning breeze. A stray dog lay asleep in the middle of the road, not far from a tramp, huddled around an empty cheap alcohol bottle. Horse dung, waste paper and plastic bags were everywhere. Suddenly he felt mounting disgust and had to struggle not to throw up. With the death of his father the city had lost whatever attraction it had held for me. In its ugliness it seemed to me like a cheap hooker after a busy night with a military regiment.
He packed the few things he had brought with him and woke his mom to bid her goodbye. As he hit the road and left the city behind, he found himself humming an old familiar tune. For a second, he frowned, thinking it unbecoming of someone just bereaved to be enjoying himself. A few minutes later he started tapping the steering wheel for tempo when the words came out piecemeal, “Oumi hibouba oumihi jaki hoba…” It was one of his favourite Indian songs and one more invaluable legacy of his Dad. He didn’t understand all the words, but the message was all that mattered: Despite trials and tribulations, pain and loss, love will triumph in the end. When he remembered one of his father’s witty remarks--those who are in a hurry, die young, he slowed down and went on humming, “oumi hibouba…”
Marrakech June 2005
Wild Thoughts
My heart is pounding. I am shaking and gasping for breath. My shirt sticks to me like a leech. Frantically I grope for the night-light, but in my hurry manage to knock it off. The clatter accentuates my disarray. For a second, I lose my bearings and begin to panic. “Where am I? What’s happening to me? A thousand questions race through my mind. I tiptoe, heading in my befuddled mind to what looks like an exit. The room, or what I assume to be a room, is pitch dark. Now I’m crawling on the cold floor. Suddenly I bang my head against a hard surface. I have the impression someone is drilling into my brain with a hammer. I hold my breath for a second and try to make sense of it all. ‘Mustn’t panic,’ I mumble. Now I’m hearing strange sounds--like waves breaking against the shore. Then I feel something traveling under my shirt, laboring up the spinal cord. It stops then moves on. I roll over and writhe to shake it off. It’s tickling me; I find myself smiling then laughing my head off. The little creepy creature is undaunted, and carries its trip up to the nape of my neck, changes its mind and climbs down. I’m hysterical. The ‘it’ is now exploring my tights. It reaches the crotch and pinches my intimate parts. I let out an inhuman cry which shakes the wall, reverberates and dies away. I double over in pain, and in fetal position, I begin to cry.
I am 3 or 4 years old; a mere mass of pink flesh. I make out a dim, large face with big eyes staring at me. I look back at the face in amazement. The face is getting closer now. Two strong hands, like forks, grab me and toss me up, catch me then throw up me again. I’m flabbergasted. The hands gently ease me down in the crib and thrust a milk bottle in my mouth. Voraciously I suck at the rubber bottle and soon fall asleep.
I’m 5 or 6. My back arches under the weight of the school bag. The school is a mile away. It’s still dark when I reach its gate. My feet are so cold I can barely feel them, so I jump to warm up. The classroom is austere except for a picture which hangs askew. The picture is of a grizzly bear standing on its hind feet, claws drawn out in a menacing way. There are a lot of inscriptions on the wooden tables that serve as desks. Some bear the names of former pupils; others have a heart pierced with an arrow. Strange drawings, I muse. I sit in the front row, just across from the teacher’s desk. The teacher is lanky, with a perceptible limp. The teacher and an olive stick are close allies. It’s almost an extension of his body.
I tremble when I hear my name called out. I stand facing a still audience, with my back against the blackboard and my arms folded. The teacher is playfully agitating the stick. I start reciting from memory chunks of poetry about green prairies, deep blue seas and snow white mountain peaks. My voice rises and falls like a sea wave. The audience is spellbound or pretends to be. The teacher is half smiling. I mark a pause, falter and mumble. The smile leaves the teacher’s face; the stick is more menacing than ever before. I start all over again, but it doesn’t help. I’m stuck and my mind goes blank. From the corner of my eye I see the stick make a 90-degree angle and lands on my scalp. Blood oozes like a water fountain, and stains my white uniform. I wet my pants in fear. I feel smaller than a gnat. I run from the class, dodging the raised stick. Outside I feel I’m newly born. How I hate school and poems about deep blue seas, green prairies and white snow capped mountain peaks!
The next morning I bid my mother goodbye. My back arches under the weight of the school bag. I walk the usual mile but bypass the school. I head to a wheat field. I spend the whole morning climbing trees and messing up birds’ nests. When I’m tired, I recline against a fig tree and eat my butter & bread sandwich. In the late afternoon I go home as if everything was normal. I’m tired, so I skip dinner and soon fall asleep. Life is wonderful without a lanky teacher and green prairies poems. Two days later I come back from “school” to find my father pacing up and down outside the house. My father is tall and sinewy. He is very often calm and nice, but now I sense his nervousness and smell disaster. I try to kiss his hand but he withdraws it in time. He asks no questions and I offer no explanations. His flat palm lands on my right and left cheeks. I see stars in the sky in broad day light. I stumble and fall. I’m carried inside, legs kicking up in the air. I feel the stick dig deep in the palms of my feet. I scream, cry and moan. They lock me up in a dark room with nothing to eat or drink for two days. I guess they think I will learn the lesson the hard way if I’m starved.
The house is quiet; mom is visiting a friend; my dad is at his job. I can barely stand, but decide to run away anyway. I pick two loaves of bread, a handful of olives which I tuck in a bundle. I search for money, and find a few bank notes sewn in a pillow. I have no qualms about stealing the money mom has been saving for bad days. I rationalize the theft as borrowed money. I leave home and drift for a day or two. I spend the night in the open under starry skies. And when I run out of food, I try the dustbins for leftovers. Now I’m tired, hungry and smell like a pig. I can’t compete with stray dogs and homeless kids for choicest morsels, so I decide to go back home.
Ashamed and dejected, I knock at the door. Mom is relieved but father is still angry. I get a sound beating, but I am grateful for the hot bath, food and a warm bed. The teacher is as determined to break my will as ever before. So I get another beating for the sake of the gold old times, but I don’t mind. One gets used to everything. Sawdust may taste like steak if you’re willing to believe, so mom says.
I'm a frail big boy. There is hair under my armpit and the semblance of a beard on a thin elongated face. I have a hard-on when I sleep. And when I wake up semen is all over the bed sheets. I tuck them in the wash basin, hoping mom will not notice I’m growing up. Whether she has found out about my deceitful conduct she never mentions it. I guess a mother doesn’t like to talk with her son about these things. Her philosophy is that a problem ignored is half resolved.
There is a beautiful young girl who has just moved into our neighborhood. When she walks in the street, my heart pounds and my hands sweat. At night when I think of her, I can’t sleep. These days I don't eat well. I guess I’m in love. Unfortunately I’m not the only one. There are others my age, from within and without the neighborhood, who are in love. One day I catch her talking with somebody. I’m green with envy so I engage in a fight. My nose is bleeding and I have a black eye. You get a sound beating when you measure up to a hefty rival. I’m ashamed of my performance, so I do the only thing I’m good at—I run away. I sit in the threshold of our home and begin to sob. I feel a hand pat my shoulder. I look up through misty eyes and I’m aglow. Her voice is soothing; her face angelic; her hand soft, as she wipes a tear that trickles down and freezes on the ridge of my nose. She is 13 and her name is Aicha, which means alive.
Every night Aicha invades my dreams. The dream is almost always the same. We are in a lush garden where trees bend under the weight of exotic fruits; rivers flow with honey and milk; bright and colorful birds I have never seen twitter and chirp. We play games like hide and seek and follow my leader. When we are tired, we sit down I pluck the petals of a forget-me-not, and whisper, 'she loves me; she doesn’t love me.' Aicha is lying on the grass, her head resting on my knees. Gently I begin to stroke her ash-black hair. She is drowsy or musing. Her eyes are mere slits in an oval face. I keep stroking her hair.
”What are you thinking about? I ask.
“I’m inside a palace with a lot of rooms, each of which is painted a different color. My favorite is the pink room with the gilt mirror, king-size bed and furled velvet curtains. I draw the Venetian blinds and myriad perfumes-- jasmine, musk, stream in. I ring a bell and maids bow down. I snap a finger, grapefruit, orange juice, hot bread for breakfast is brought on a golden platter. The lady-in-waiting helps me dress up for the ball. I choose a white dress with silk laces and gold slippers to match the hair ribbons. I descend the marble stairs and there at the bottom, he is waiting for me...”
I have been taking in her words, but at the mention of ‘he’, I hurriedly ask “What does he look like? “Well, he is … he is handsome, tall, strong, and blond.”
I inspect my forked legs, feel my dark brown hair and realize I don’t fit the picture. “But does he have to be the athletic blond type? I protest.
Aicha is flippantly stealing for time.
While she is thinking, I am assailed by doubt and confusion. I make a mental picture of sacrifices I have to make to meet her requirements of Prince Charming--dye my hair blond, pump weigh every other day, and even run 5miles a day. “What about you? She suddenly asks. She catches me off guard, so I clear my throat to cover up my embarrassment.
“I would love to live on a large farm, surrounded by a score of horses and a dozen goats and cows. I’d love to get up at the sound of the rooster to till the land, sow the grains or to weed out the flower and vegetables beds. I adore simple and natural things like the neighing of horses and the bleating of sheep. I’m enthralled when a dog barks at an intruder; when a cat mewls in defiance, purrs in barely disguised pleasure or screams in heat. I love the morning breeze, the smell of bread fresh from the oven; I relish a shepherd's lyre melodies, as he drives the herd to green pastures.'
I’m carried away by my dream world and fail to realize that Aicha is no longer musing but sitting rigidly, her brows are tightly knit, and her smile a grimace.
“If I choose to live in your world,’ she snaps ‘my white satin dress and gold slippers will be out of place in your farm. Besides your pigs' dung will drown my magnolia perfume…” While she is airing her grievances, I belatedly I realize that butter and olive oil and oven bread is no match for her grapefruit and orange juice breakfast; my farm is an eyesore compared to her palace. It suddenly dawns on me that we’re worlds apart. Whoever said opposites attract must be crazy or has never been in love.
It’s getting late; the sun has hurriedly left the sky and fluffy clouds are taking over. I sense a storm brewing. Has our little romance floundered against the bedrock of reality? ‘The garden of Eden’ is transformed into a desert: the trees have lost their foliage and the exotic birds have flown away. I look at Aicha, but fail to recognize her. She has changed: Her face is no longer young and beautiful but old and distorted, almost like the ogress in my grandmother’s tale. I cower and cover my face. The dream is over. I have strong misgivings.
One day a furniture van draws up in front of Aicha’s house. I watch in disbelief, as furniture—tables mattresses, chairs, stove, bric a brac are pilled in the van. I’m at a loss for words when I realise Aicha is moving out to a far-off city. Even in my wildest dream I have never imagined that she will leave the neighbourhood one day. I catch a last glimpse of her as she climbs inside the furniture van with her family. She doesn’t look up as I run to bid her farewell. I search her face, but it’s expressionless. The van spits its deadly fumes before it disappears around the corner. Very often it’s hard to describe what one feels on the spur of the moment. I just experienced emptiness inside, gnawing away at my entrails.
I go home and lock the door to my room. I cry my heart out. I spend hours watching the walls melt. I’m oblivious of the incessant knock at the door, the shuffling of feet, the begging and entreating of my mother.
Finally they use force to break in; the door comes off its hinges and crashes to the ground. Mom is stroking my dark brown hair and is trying to soothe me. Dad is trying to spoil me. For a change, he’s bought me sweets and fruits and even a guitar. I look away. I am mute. They’re holding a private meeting to discuss my case. My father thinks I' m stressed so the following day a strangers streams inside the room, feels my pulse, bares my back, examines my eyes, teeth, stomach, and leaves. I'm forced to swallow pills and apply ointments. My mother believes I’m possessed, so an old man with white hair is brought in. Fkih is his title. He recites some Koranic verses pinches my fingers and bets my back He's insensitive to my remonstration and is determined to chase away the evil spirit which inhabits me A strong smell pervades the room. My mother is all the time burning incense and some weird unnamable herbs. They don’t realize I’m possessed by a monster called love. Late in the evening when everybody finally leaves the room, I treasure the moment and cherish my loneliness. The room is dark except for a pale light fixed in the ceiling. I’m intrigued by a moth which is frantically spinning round the light bulb. I wonder at risks unnecessarily taken. Why is the moth courting danger? And for what unfathomable reasons? May be it doesn't know. I’m trying to figure out if the people around me have ever been tempted to go beyond the limits of their possibilities and found the answer complex. Dad, for instance, likes to take risks and to live his life fully. Sometimes his rash decisions jeopardize our routine life, so to recoup his losses we go without meat for a week or two. Small sacrifices he says; hungry and empty stomach is no light mater, I complain. Come to think of it there are lots of people, just like dad, who prefer to live dangerously: bull fighters, stilt men, cliff hangers, tightrope walkers, game hunters. Mom, on the contrary, can’t risk her neck beyond the threshold of our home. She believes the world beyond is rife with maniacs. She prefers the security of her walled-in existence to the frills of the big city. The only time she leaves home is when she goes to the Turkish bath or when she visits the shrines of the city saints. But even then there's always someone who accompanies her. She loves her world precisely because it’s predictable and small... Why are mom and dad so different? Is it something to do with the genes, as our biology teacher intimates. Or is it the planets which seem to turn one sanguine and the other phlegmatic? I think the problem is too complex for my simple mind to absorb. Now I am thrilled at racial differences and at the stereotypes: super polite Chinese, frigid English, macho Italians, miser Jews, treacherous Arabs. Sadist men, masochist women, oversexed blacks, super intelligent whites. Is it the climate, the planets, the genes, culture, sex or a combination of all that determine one’s character? The more I look at the issue the more I am confused. I’m not good at extrapolations, inference or deduction. I give up. I turn my attention once more to the moth. It’s spinning and spinning then it crashes into the globe. It ceases to exist as if it has never lived. Who’s going to notice that it’s ever existed? And does it really matter in the final analysis? I try to convince myself that its brief and ephemeral life must have had a purpose and that the natural order will be affected even minimally. But I’m not sure I’m right. The shuffling of feet at threshold interrupts my peregrination. I hear loud voices. I am resentful and tense. Two men in white uniform come in. They look stern and professional. They grab me unceremoniously and force me into a straitjacket. I try to protest but words fail me. Mom is crying; dad is worried but doesn’t show it. Lamely he’s trying to explain they’re doing it for my sake. Doing what, I wonder and try to understand. Outside a crowd of relatives and neighbors has gathered. They’re shaking their heads, out of sympathy, bewilderment or of both. Driving in the ambulance to the asylum, I feel sad for my family and friends. They think I’m mad and the asylum will reform me. They don’t understand that some people may live their lives fully albeit within the confines of prison cells while others are prisoners of their palaces. The siren is wailing, as the driver tries to negotiate space between fruit carts, bicycles and horse drawn carriages.
At the sanatorium, they undress me. I feel smaller than the time I wet myself in the classroom. They empty my pockets, confiscate my leather belt and shoelaces. They probably think I might be tempted to take my life away. I batter my jeans and tee-shirt for a striped uniform. I do really look like a clown but have no heart to laugh. Later in the evening, when family and the staff have left, I take in a glance my new ‘home’. The oblong room has about 10 beds which must have seen better days. The plaster comes off the wall in flakes, the beds have latticework patterns, but springs squeeze and whine when you sit or turn over. The mattress smells of ether and is lice infected. My next bed companion is a man of indeterminate age. He’s bald except for some strands that rebelliously protrude under a dervish’s hat. For some obscure reason, he shoots an arm from under the blanket, as if fencing an invisible enemy. At the other end of the corridor, a young man, barely older than me, is squatting on the bed. He has a haggard look and seems not to know where he is. Suddenly he jumps out bed and begins to pace up and down. He is so frail that I wonder how he manages not lose his balance. He starts to mumble, then to shout. At first I can’t make out the words, but slowly his apparent jumbo begins to make some sense.
‘Why did you leave me when I needed you? Scoundrel, good-for- nothing bastard. You're deadlier than a rattlesnake, bitter than lemon, harsher than the fig of Barbary.’
The voice drones on in monosyllabic monologue punctuated by expletives, sighing, tearing of hair, and occasional banging of head against the wall. The little ritual goes on for some time until a door opens and the same two gorillas who have hijacked me drag him out. The door slams shut. Everything is quiet but the silence is heavier and more menacing than the histrionics of my comrade- in- madness. A sudden inhuman cry sets my nerves on edge. The pleading and moaning go on for some time. Half an hour later the door opens, x is half carried to his mattress and is thrown like rubbish. The gorillas leave, as they have come, unflinching and unblinking I couldn't help mutter, 'animals.'
One day the door opens, and a man I haven’t seen before accompanied by a host of young looking men and women immaculately dressed, strut in. I'm all excited at the idea of seeing new faces for a change. My enthusiasm is short lived. The cortege stops by X's bed and mills around. From X's reaction I guess he has seen them before. The man in charge breaks the silence,' a fine specimen we have here. Has a 3-years old's IQ. feels persecuted. by invisible enemies. Victim of family tragedy: his father killed wife and his siblings. Only survivor; a burnt-out case. Treatment: sedatives and alternate electric shocks.' The interns jot down notes, nod their heads in approval and admiration. The Doc moves on to Y’s corner.
The next days I'm busy working on a survival strategy. I don't want to be a guinea-pig; a case study for some nerd's graduation project. I have to be smarter if I want to retain my in/sanity and leave this place. My recovery has to be gradual otherwise they will not suspect me of dissembling. So the next time the Doc. and his acolytes stop by my bed, I pull faces at them, insult their mothers in vulgar terms, bare my bottom and scream. Quickly the gorillas are summoned and plaque me. I feel the syringe cut deep into my skin and I wince Soon I'm in state approaching nirvana: I could hardly feel my limbs my eyes are heavy with sleep. Yet I hear the doc dissecting my case "an interesting case for study strange case. Patient displays symptoms of split personality. Not yet twilight zone between schizophrenia and depressive maniac. Unknown family history. Requires close surveillance' Now the voice seems to come from afar as I slip into a deep sleep. For one week I'm left alone. The interns make their routine inspection of Y and X I play a cat and mouse game with them: either I fall into deep muteness or provide few clear vague details for them to place me. I sense the doc's perplexity and the interns equally disturbing reactions. I'm tempering with his patience, and in a way challenging his professional authority. It's a narrow path I'm treading. The unexpected happens one Tuesday morning: the two gorillas drag me to the Doc's office. They place two electrons on my head and secure my hands and legs in straps. I watch a needle draw lines on apiece of paper but to interpret its signification. An hour later. I'm free from the straps and taken back to the room. No word of explanation is given. Now I'm in the dark and start having doubts about my state of my mind. What if there's a tumor in my brain? What if I should turn out to be epileptic? A thousand questions race through my mind. And for the first time I begin to lose my illusions and self-control. The next day the metallic door opens I know something unusual is going to happen. My ordeal starts with a cold shower. I shiver as the gorillas aim the hose at my private parts and my back. Then I'm screaming at the top of my voice but was soon gagged
My heart is pounding. I am shaking and gasping for breath. My shirt sticks to me like a leech. Frantically I grope for the night-light, but in my hurry manage to knock it off. The clatter accentuates my disarray. For a second, I lose my bearings and begin to panic. “Where am I? What’s happening to me? A thousand questions race through my mind. I tiptoe, heading in my befuddled mind to what looks like an exit. The room, or what I assume to be a room, is pitch dark. Now I’m crawling on the cold floor. Suddenly I bang my head against a hard surface. I have the impression someone is drilling into my brain with a hammer. I hold my breath for a second and try to make sense of it all. ‘Mustn’t panic,’ I mumble. Now I’m hearing strange sounds--like waves breaking against the shore. Then I feel something traveling under my shirt, laboring up the spinal cord. It stops then moves on. I roll over and writhe to shake it off. It’s tickling me; I find myself smiling then laughing my head off. The little creepy creature is undaunted, and carries its trip up to the nape of my neck, changes its mind and climbs down. I’m hysterical. The ‘it’ is now exploring my tights. It reaches the crotch and pinches my intimate parts. I let out an inhuman cry which shakes the wall, reverberates and dies away. I double over in pain, and in fetal position, I begin to cry.
I am 3 or 4 years old; a mere mass of pink flesh. I make out a dim, large face with big eyes staring at me. I look back at the face in amazement. The face is getting closer now. Two strong hands, like forks, grab me and toss me up, catch me then throw up me again. I’m flabbergasted. The hands gently ease me down in the crib and thrust a milk bottle in my mouth. Voraciously I suck at the rubber bottle and soon fall asleep.
I’m 5 or 6. My back arches under the weight of the school bag. The school is a mile away. It’s still dark when I reach its gate. My feet are so cold I can barely feel them, so I jump to warm up. The classroom is austere except for a picture which hangs askew. The picture is of a grizzly bear standing on its hind feet, claws drawn out in a menacing way. There are a lot of inscriptions on the wooden tables that serve as desks. Some bear the names of former pupils; others have a heart pierced with an arrow. Strange drawings, I muse. I sit in the front row, just across from the teacher’s desk. The teacher is lanky, with a perceptible limp. The teacher and an olive stick are close allies. It’s almost an extension of his body.
I tremble when I hear my name called out. I stand facing a still audience, with my back against the blackboard and my arms folded. The teacher is playfully agitating the stick. I start reciting from memory chunks of poetry about green prairies, deep blue seas and snow white mountain peaks. My voice rises and falls like a sea wave. The audience is spellbound or pretends to be. The teacher is half smiling. I mark a pause, falter and mumble. The smile leaves the teacher’s face; the stick is more menacing than ever before. I start all over again, but it doesn’t help. I’m stuck and my mind goes blank. From the corner of my eye I see the stick make a 90-degree angle and lands on my scalp. Blood oozes like a water fountain, and stains my white uniform. I wet my pants in fear. I feel smaller than a gnat. I run from the class, dodging the raised stick. Outside I feel I’m newly born. How I hate school and poems about deep blue seas, green prairies and white snow capped mountain peaks!
The next morning I bid my mother goodbye. My back arches under the weight of the school bag. I walk the usual mile but bypass the school. I head to a wheat field. I spend the whole morning climbing trees and messing up birds’ nests. When I’m tired, I recline against a fig tree and eat my butter & bread sandwich. In the late afternoon I go home as if everything was normal. I’m tired, so I skip dinner and soon fall asleep. Life is wonderful without a lanky teacher and green prairies poems. Two days later I come back from “school” to find my father pacing up and down outside the house. My father is tall and sinewy. He is very often calm and nice, but now I sense his nervousness and smell disaster. I try to kiss his hand but he withdraws it in time. He asks no questions and I offer no explanations. His flat palm lands on my right and left cheeks. I see stars in the sky in broad day light. I stumble and fall. I’m carried inside, legs kicking up in the air. I feel the stick dig deep in the palms of my feet. I scream, cry and moan. They lock me up in a dark room with nothing to eat or drink for two days. I guess they think I will learn the lesson the hard way if I’m starved.
The house is quiet; mom is visiting a friend; my dad is at his job. I can barely stand, but decide to run away anyway. I pick two loaves of bread, a handful of olives which I tuck in a bundle. I search for money, and find a few bank notes sewn in a pillow. I have no qualms about stealing the money mom has been saving for bad days. I rationalize the theft as borrowed money. I leave home and drift for a day or two. I spend the night in the open under starry skies. And when I run out of food, I try the dustbins for leftovers. Now I’m tired, hungry and smell like a pig. I can’t compete with stray dogs and homeless kids for choicest morsels, so I decide to go back home.
Ashamed and dejected, I knock at the door. Mom is relieved but father is still angry. I get a sound beating, but I am grateful for the hot bath, food and a warm bed. The teacher is as determined to break my will as ever before. So I get another beating for the sake of the gold old times, but I don’t mind. One gets used to everything. Sawdust may taste like steak if you’re willing to believe, so mom says.
I'm a frail big boy. There is hair under my armpit and the semblance of a beard on a thin elongated face. I have a hard-on when I sleep. And when I wake up semen is all over the bed sheets. I tuck them in the wash basin, hoping mom will not notice I’m growing up. Whether she has found out about my deceitful conduct she never mentions it. I guess a mother doesn’t like to talk with her son about these things. Her philosophy is that a problem ignored is half resolved.
There is a beautiful young girl who has just moved into our neighborhood. When she walks in the street, my heart pounds and my hands sweat. At night when I think of her, I can’t sleep. These days I don't eat well. I guess I’m in love. Unfortunately I’m not the only one. There are others my age, from within and without the neighborhood, who are in love. One day I catch her talking with somebody. I’m green with envy so I engage in a fight. My nose is bleeding and I have a black eye. You get a sound beating when you measure up to a hefty rival. I’m ashamed of my performance, so I do the only thing I’m good at—I run away. I sit in the threshold of our home and begin to sob. I feel a hand pat my shoulder. I look up through misty eyes and I’m aglow. Her voice is soothing; her face angelic; her hand soft, as she wipes a tear that trickles down and freezes on the ridge of my nose. She is 13 and her name is Aicha, which means alive.
Every night Aicha invades my dreams. The dream is almost always the same. We are in a lush garden where trees bend under the weight of exotic fruits; rivers flow with honey and milk; bright and colorful birds I have never seen twitter and chirp. We play games like hide and seek and follow my leader. When we are tired, we sit down I pluck the petals of a forget-me-not, and whisper, 'she loves me; she doesn’t love me.' Aicha is lying on the grass, her head resting on my knees. Gently I begin to stroke her ash-black hair. She is drowsy or musing. Her eyes are mere slits in an oval face. I keep stroking her hair.
”What are you thinking about? I ask.
“I’m inside a palace with a lot of rooms, each of which is painted a different color. My favorite is the pink room with the gilt mirror, king-size bed and furled velvet curtains. I draw the Venetian blinds and myriad perfumes-- jasmine, musk, stream in. I ring a bell and maids bow down. I snap a finger, grapefruit, orange juice, hot bread for breakfast is brought on a golden platter. The lady-in-waiting helps me dress up for the ball. I choose a white dress with silk laces and gold slippers to match the hair ribbons. I descend the marble stairs and there at the bottom, he is waiting for me...”
I have been taking in her words, but at the mention of ‘he’, I hurriedly ask “What does he look like? “Well, he is … he is handsome, tall, strong, and blond.”
I inspect my forked legs, feel my dark brown hair and realize I don’t fit the picture. “But does he have to be the athletic blond type? I protest.
Aicha is flippantly stealing for time.
While she is thinking, I am assailed by doubt and confusion. I make a mental picture of sacrifices I have to make to meet her requirements of Prince Charming--dye my hair blond, pump weigh every other day, and even run 5miles a day. “What about you? She suddenly asks. She catches me off guard, so I clear my throat to cover up my embarrassment.
“I would love to live on a large farm, surrounded by a score of horses and a dozen goats and cows. I’d love to get up at the sound of the rooster to till the land, sow the grains or to weed out the flower and vegetables beds. I adore simple and natural things like the neighing of horses and the bleating of sheep. I’m enthralled when a dog barks at an intruder; when a cat mewls in defiance, purrs in barely disguised pleasure or screams in heat. I love the morning breeze, the smell of bread fresh from the oven; I relish a shepherd's lyre melodies, as he drives the herd to green pastures.'
I’m carried away by my dream world and fail to realize that Aicha is no longer musing but sitting rigidly, her brows are tightly knit, and her smile a grimace.
“If I choose to live in your world,’ she snaps ‘my white satin dress and gold slippers will be out of place in your farm. Besides your pigs' dung will drown my magnolia perfume…” While she is airing her grievances, I belatedly I realize that butter and olive oil and oven bread is no match for her grapefruit and orange juice breakfast; my farm is an eyesore compared to her palace. It suddenly dawns on me that we’re worlds apart. Whoever said opposites attract must be crazy or has never been in love.
It’s getting late; the sun has hurriedly left the sky and fluffy clouds are taking over. I sense a storm brewing. Has our little romance floundered against the bedrock of reality? ‘The garden of Eden’ is transformed into a desert: the trees have lost their foliage and the exotic birds have flown away. I look at Aicha, but fail to recognize her. She has changed: Her face is no longer young and beautiful but old and distorted, almost like the ogress in my grandmother’s tale. I cower and cover my face. The dream is over. I have strong misgivings.
One day a furniture van draws up in front of Aicha’s house. I watch in disbelief, as furniture—tables mattresses, chairs, stove, bric a brac are pilled in the van. I’m at a loss for words when I realise Aicha is moving out to a far-off city. Even in my wildest dream I have never imagined that she will leave the neighbourhood one day. I catch a last glimpse of her as she climbs inside the furniture van with her family. She doesn’t look up as I run to bid her farewell. I search her face, but it’s expressionless. The van spits its deadly fumes before it disappears around the corner. Very often it’s hard to describe what one feels on the spur of the moment. I just experienced emptiness inside, gnawing away at my entrails.
I go home and lock the door to my room. I cry my heart out. I spend hours watching the walls melt. I’m oblivious of the incessant knock at the door, the shuffling of feet, the begging and entreating of my mother.
Finally they use force to break in; the door comes off its hinges and crashes to the ground. Mom is stroking my dark brown hair and is trying to soothe me. Dad is trying to spoil me. For a change, he’s bought me sweets and fruits and even a guitar. I look away. I am mute. They’re holding a private meeting to discuss my case. My father thinks I' m stressed so the following day a strangers streams inside the room, feels my pulse, bares my back, examines my eyes, teeth, stomach, and leaves. I'm forced to swallow pills and apply ointments. My mother believes I’m possessed, so an old man with white hair is brought in. Fkih is his title. He recites some Koranic verses pinches my fingers and bets my back He's insensitive to my remonstration and is determined to chase away the evil spirit which inhabits me A strong smell pervades the room. My mother is all the time burning incense and some weird unnamable herbs. They don’t realize I’m possessed by a monster called love. Late in the evening when everybody finally leaves the room, I treasure the moment and cherish my loneliness. The room is dark except for a pale light fixed in the ceiling. I’m intrigued by a moth which is frantically spinning round the light bulb. I wonder at risks unnecessarily taken. Why is the moth courting danger? And for what unfathomable reasons? May be it doesn't know. I’m trying to figure out if the people around me have ever been tempted to go beyond the limits of their possibilities and found the answer complex. Dad, for instance, likes to take risks and to live his life fully. Sometimes his rash decisions jeopardize our routine life, so to recoup his losses we go without meat for a week or two. Small sacrifices he says; hungry and empty stomach is no light mater, I complain. Come to think of it there are lots of people, just like dad, who prefer to live dangerously: bull fighters, stilt men, cliff hangers, tightrope walkers, game hunters. Mom, on the contrary, can’t risk her neck beyond the threshold of our home. She believes the world beyond is rife with maniacs. She prefers the security of her walled-in existence to the frills of the big city. The only time she leaves home is when she goes to the Turkish bath or when she visits the shrines of the city saints. But even then there's always someone who accompanies her. She loves her world precisely because it’s predictable and small... Why are mom and dad so different? Is it something to do with the genes, as our biology teacher intimates. Or is it the planets which seem to turn one sanguine and the other phlegmatic? I think the problem is too complex for my simple mind to absorb. Now I am thrilled at racial differences and at the stereotypes: super polite Chinese, frigid English, macho Italians, miser Jews, treacherous Arabs. Sadist men, masochist women, oversexed blacks, super intelligent whites. Is it the climate, the planets, the genes, culture, sex or a combination of all that determine one’s character? The more I look at the issue the more I am confused. I’m not good at extrapolations, inference or deduction. I give up. I turn my attention once more to the moth. It’s spinning and spinning then it crashes into the globe. It ceases to exist as if it has never lived. Who’s going to notice that it’s ever existed? And does it really matter in the final analysis? I try to convince myself that its brief and ephemeral life must have had a purpose and that the natural order will be affected even minimally. But I’m not sure I’m right. The shuffling of feet at threshold interrupts my peregrination. I hear loud voices. I am resentful and tense. Two men in white uniform come in. They look stern and professional. They grab me unceremoniously and force me into a straitjacket. I try to protest but words fail me. Mom is crying; dad is worried but doesn’t show it. Lamely he’s trying to explain they’re doing it for my sake. Doing what, I wonder and try to understand. Outside a crowd of relatives and neighbors has gathered. They’re shaking their heads, out of sympathy, bewilderment or of both. Driving in the ambulance to the asylum, I feel sad for my family and friends. They think I’m mad and the asylum will reform me. They don’t understand that some people may live their lives fully albeit within the confines of prison cells while others are prisoners of their palaces. The siren is wailing, as the driver tries to negotiate space between fruit carts, bicycles and horse drawn carriages.
At the sanatorium, they undress me. I feel smaller than the time I wet myself in the classroom. They empty my pockets, confiscate my leather belt and shoelaces. They probably think I might be tempted to take my life away. I batter my jeans and tee-shirt for a striped uniform. I do really look like a clown but have no heart to laugh. Later in the evening, when family and the staff have left, I take in a glance my new ‘home’. The oblong room has about 10 beds which must have seen better days. The plaster comes off the wall in flakes, the beds have latticework patterns, but springs squeeze and whine when you sit or turn over. The mattress smells of ether and is lice infected. My next bed companion is a man of indeterminate age. He’s bald except for some strands that rebelliously protrude under a dervish’s hat. For some obscure reason, he shoots an arm from under the blanket, as if fencing an invisible enemy. At the other end of the corridor, a young man, barely older than me, is squatting on the bed. He has a haggard look and seems not to know where he is. Suddenly he jumps out bed and begins to pace up and down. He is so frail that I wonder how he manages not lose his balance. He starts to mumble, then to shout. At first I can’t make out the words, but slowly his apparent jumbo begins to make some sense.
‘Why did you leave me when I needed you? Scoundrel, good-for- nothing bastard. You're deadlier than a rattlesnake, bitter than lemon, harsher than the fig of Barbary.’
The voice drones on in monosyllabic monologue punctuated by expletives, sighing, tearing of hair, and occasional banging of head against the wall. The little ritual goes on for some time until a door opens and the same two gorillas who have hijacked me drag him out. The door slams shut. Everything is quiet but the silence is heavier and more menacing than the histrionics of my comrade- in- madness. A sudden inhuman cry sets my nerves on edge. The pleading and moaning go on for some time. Half an hour later the door opens, x is half carried to his mattress and is thrown like rubbish. The gorillas leave, as they have come, unflinching and unblinking I couldn't help mutter, 'animals.'
One day the door opens, and a man I haven’t seen before accompanied by a host of young looking men and women immaculately dressed, strut in. I'm all excited at the idea of seeing new faces for a change. My enthusiasm is short lived. The cortege stops by X's bed and mills around. From X's reaction I guess he has seen them before. The man in charge breaks the silence,' a fine specimen we have here. Has a 3-years old's IQ. feels persecuted. by invisible enemies. Victim of family tragedy: his father killed wife and his siblings. Only survivor; a burnt-out case. Treatment: sedatives and alternate electric shocks.' The interns jot down notes, nod their heads in approval and admiration. The Doc moves on to Y’s corner.
The next days I'm busy working on a survival strategy. I don't want to be a guinea-pig; a case study for some nerd's graduation project. I have to be smarter if I want to retain my in/sanity and leave this place. My recovery has to be gradual otherwise they will not suspect me of dissembling. So the next time the Doc. and his acolytes stop by my bed, I pull faces at them, insult their mothers in vulgar terms, bare my bottom and scream. Quickly the gorillas are summoned and plaque me. I feel the syringe cut deep into my skin and I wince Soon I'm in state approaching nirvana: I could hardly feel my limbs my eyes are heavy with sleep. Yet I hear the doc dissecting my case "an interesting case for study strange case. Patient displays symptoms of split personality. Not yet twilight zone between schizophrenia and depressive maniac. Unknown family history. Requires close surveillance' Now the voice seems to come from afar as I slip into a deep sleep. For one week I'm left alone. The interns make their routine inspection of Y and X I play a cat and mouse game with them: either I fall into deep muteness or provide few clear vague details for them to place me. I sense the doc's perplexity and the interns equally disturbing reactions. I'm tempering with his patience, and in a way challenging his professional authority. It's a narrow path I'm treading. The unexpected happens one Tuesday morning: the two gorillas drag me to the Doc's office. They place two electrons on my head and secure my hands and legs in straps. I watch a needle draw lines on apiece of paper but to interpret its signification. An hour later. I'm free from the straps and taken back to the room. No word of explanation is given. Now I'm in the dark and start having doubts about my state of my mind. What if there's a tumor in my brain? What if I should turn out to be epileptic? A thousand questions race through my mind. And for the first time I begin to lose my illusions and self-control. The next day the metallic door opens I know something unusual is going to happen. My ordeal starts with a cold shower. I shiver as the gorillas aim the hose at my private parts and my back. Then I'm screaming at the top of my voice but was soon gagged
( To be continued)
The Car
I was about to kick start the car when I thought I heard a strange noise. It came as a surprise, used as I am to most of my car’s weird sounds. In winter when the thermometer hovers below zero, it requires Herculean efforts to get it working. I usually start with a little prayer. I push up the starter then engage the key in the ignition lock. I turn it a couple of times full swing from left to right, and slam the accelerator. Usually I get a sound resembling the whining of a dog. More often than not the car comes alive after a series of switching on and off the key and gentle pushes on the accelerator. When it comes to the worse and I’m desperate to get the kids to school in time, I enlist the help of our janitor to push me down a little slope. The poor man would sweat despite the freezing cold. So most of winter M’hammed would be waiting outside the small house, where I live, sleeves rolled up. “When are you going to buy a new car? He would ask ‘When God‘s willing,’ I would answer. It was easy to leave it to fate than to blame it on a poor salary and an increasingly demanding and growing family. Without his help my kids would have missed their classes and I my job.
It’s strange how one develops a special relationship with a car. In a sense a car is like a wife. There’s some affection which builds up, but also weariness. I have owned my car for 16 years and been married for 12. I enjoyed the first three years of honeymoon. The car glided over smooth highways, taking me to far-off destinations and safely bringing me back home. Five years later the love I felt for the car began to run out of steam. We had our first major lovers’ quarrel as I was driving from Malaga to San Roque. The car was packed with the presents one buys for family and friends because everybody expects a souvenir from you when you’re on holidays. Besides the load of saucepans, tee-shirts, packs of cigarettes and bars of chocolate, balls of red cheese, (as if there were no cheese in Morocco) there were aboard a Dutch friend and a toddler. I was happy humming an old country music tune and admiring the green pastures on which fat cows grazed, when the car jerked as if in the throes of a heart attack. I slowed and turned off the car radio. The Dutch friend was busy quietening the baby while my wife was unaware of my knitted brows. We drove for about a hundred meters when the same jerking movement coupled with a deafening sound hit my ears. This time I Knew we were in trouble. ‘Not on the expressway,’ I pleaded. ‘Anywhere but here.’ The only response I got was the sound of the engine at the end of its tether. I looked around and could only see lines of cars driving at breakneck speed. Stopping even on the slow lane was closer to committing suicide. On the other side of the road I saw a bar with a neon light sign. I was sure I could get some help there but then I had to stop, run across 4 lanes and try to convince somebody to do the same in a language I barely spoke. I gave up the suicidal idea. Again I invoked the names of Muslim Saints, and since I was in Spain I thought it only appropriate to include San Sebastian and San Jose, to come to my rescue. Oddly enough my prayer was answered quickly than I imagined. I soon spotted an exit. I breathed a sigh of relief when I left behind the throng of cars and found myself driving on a deserted dirt road. It was then that the engine let out a deafening sound and went dead. To be stranded on a deserted road is bad but to do it on a Saturday when nobody worked is worse.
I like to think of cars as living entities, and not just horse powered devils or predictable robots. They act and fare like humans; strangely enough like you and me. The engine is the throbbing heart the wheel the feet that carry you away; the petrol and radiator water are what keep them going. Like a human being a car ages, loses its lustre and illusions. A car needs pampering and fondling just as wife needs the assurance that she’s is still desirable. A car looks up to a coat of paint as a woman hankers for a hot shower after a hard work day The coat of paint has a resuscitating effect in the same way make-up rejuvenates a wrinkled face or knitted brow.
Cars throw tantrums from time to time, just as wives in the grip of their periods turn sour and mean. But cars, even old ones, can sometimes surprise you when you least expect it. At times I find myself racing my battered car against a Mercedes or a BMW. When I overtake the driver smoking his fat cigar in his post car, I give him a malicious taunting look. That’s when I grow even fonder of my old car. The dear old beast is still capable of feats
There’s a complicity which develops over the years between the car and the owner. I’m not talking about those people who change cars as they would ties or underwear. I mean the die-hard who hoard and cling to scraps and used-up objects for some obscure and sentimental reason.
So when the car coughed this morning I started to have doubts about its fate. Maybe it was time for a thorough check up.
This time it was the battery. Over the years, I had changed the radiator, a dented door, broken windshield glass, door knobs, brakes, the accelerator, discs, plates, tail lights, beam lights, head lights, fan, you name it. When I realised I could not cope up with the mounting upkeep costs, I left it rust out. I guess I have reached the critical couple stage when the wife sleeps in the bed and the husband on the sofa. Love has ebbed away and passion died. So I’ve stopped to care about my car. Now the inside mirror is cracked; the hood is without a lock and the passenger seat door is blocked. So when I stop for a hitchhiker, he has first to climb through the driver seat before hitching himself and slouching in his tight corner; not easy if you’re fat.
Muhammed is, as usual, there to help or to crack a joke.
‘When are you going to sell this junk? Last time you said when your son is 18.’ He was right. I had said this before just to get him off my back. I cleared my throat to hide my embarrassment. ‘Come to think of it, I deliberately took my time. ‘It’s going to be my special gift for my son’s wedding.’ Muhammed stood speechless for what seemed an eternity then stammered out, ‘I’ve met many freaks in my life, but you surely beat them all.’
I left him pondering human fickleness and tried to rationalise my attachment to my old car. I tried to convince myself that a car is human being. It had its heyday, served its time like a worthy warrior or companion, and now it’s time for him to retire. You don’t want a man to ditch his wife because she’s grown old and fat and ugly and marry a younger one instead? There are certain things I’d never dare.
Marrakech 2005
I was about to kick start the car when I thought I heard a strange noise. It came as a surprise, used as I am to most of my car’s weird sounds. In winter when the thermometer hovers below zero, it requires Herculean efforts to get it working. I usually start with a little prayer. I push up the starter then engage the key in the ignition lock. I turn it a couple of times full swing from left to right, and slam the accelerator. Usually I get a sound resembling the whining of a dog. More often than not the car comes alive after a series of switching on and off the key and gentle pushes on the accelerator. When it comes to the worse and I’m desperate to get the kids to school in time, I enlist the help of our janitor to push me down a little slope. The poor man would sweat despite the freezing cold. So most of winter M’hammed would be waiting outside the small house, where I live, sleeves rolled up. “When are you going to buy a new car? He would ask ‘When God‘s willing,’ I would answer. It was easy to leave it to fate than to blame it on a poor salary and an increasingly demanding and growing family. Without his help my kids would have missed their classes and I my job.
It’s strange how one develops a special relationship with a car. In a sense a car is like a wife. There’s some affection which builds up, but also weariness. I have owned my car for 16 years and been married for 12. I enjoyed the first three years of honeymoon. The car glided over smooth highways, taking me to far-off destinations and safely bringing me back home. Five years later the love I felt for the car began to run out of steam. We had our first major lovers’ quarrel as I was driving from Malaga to San Roque. The car was packed with the presents one buys for family and friends because everybody expects a souvenir from you when you’re on holidays. Besides the load of saucepans, tee-shirts, packs of cigarettes and bars of chocolate, balls of red cheese, (as if there were no cheese in Morocco) there were aboard a Dutch friend and a toddler. I was happy humming an old country music tune and admiring the green pastures on which fat cows grazed, when the car jerked as if in the throes of a heart attack. I slowed and turned off the car radio. The Dutch friend was busy quietening the baby while my wife was unaware of my knitted brows. We drove for about a hundred meters when the same jerking movement coupled with a deafening sound hit my ears. This time I Knew we were in trouble. ‘Not on the expressway,’ I pleaded. ‘Anywhere but here.’ The only response I got was the sound of the engine at the end of its tether. I looked around and could only see lines of cars driving at breakneck speed. Stopping even on the slow lane was closer to committing suicide. On the other side of the road I saw a bar with a neon light sign. I was sure I could get some help there but then I had to stop, run across 4 lanes and try to convince somebody to do the same in a language I barely spoke. I gave up the suicidal idea. Again I invoked the names of Muslim Saints, and since I was in Spain I thought it only appropriate to include San Sebastian and San Jose, to come to my rescue. Oddly enough my prayer was answered quickly than I imagined. I soon spotted an exit. I breathed a sigh of relief when I left behind the throng of cars and found myself driving on a deserted dirt road. It was then that the engine let out a deafening sound and went dead. To be stranded on a deserted road is bad but to do it on a Saturday when nobody worked is worse.
I like to think of cars as living entities, and not just horse powered devils or predictable robots. They act and fare like humans; strangely enough like you and me. The engine is the throbbing heart the wheel the feet that carry you away; the petrol and radiator water are what keep them going. Like a human being a car ages, loses its lustre and illusions. A car needs pampering and fondling just as wife needs the assurance that she’s is still desirable. A car looks up to a coat of paint as a woman hankers for a hot shower after a hard work day The coat of paint has a resuscitating effect in the same way make-up rejuvenates a wrinkled face or knitted brow.
Cars throw tantrums from time to time, just as wives in the grip of their periods turn sour and mean. But cars, even old ones, can sometimes surprise you when you least expect it. At times I find myself racing my battered car against a Mercedes or a BMW. When I overtake the driver smoking his fat cigar in his post car, I give him a malicious taunting look. That’s when I grow even fonder of my old car. The dear old beast is still capable of feats
There’s a complicity which develops over the years between the car and the owner. I’m not talking about those people who change cars as they would ties or underwear. I mean the die-hard who hoard and cling to scraps and used-up objects for some obscure and sentimental reason.
So when the car coughed this morning I started to have doubts about its fate. Maybe it was time for a thorough check up.
This time it was the battery. Over the years, I had changed the radiator, a dented door, broken windshield glass, door knobs, brakes, the accelerator, discs, plates, tail lights, beam lights, head lights, fan, you name it. When I realised I could not cope up with the mounting upkeep costs, I left it rust out. I guess I have reached the critical couple stage when the wife sleeps in the bed and the husband on the sofa. Love has ebbed away and passion died. So I’ve stopped to care about my car. Now the inside mirror is cracked; the hood is without a lock and the passenger seat door is blocked. So when I stop for a hitchhiker, he has first to climb through the driver seat before hitching himself and slouching in his tight corner; not easy if you’re fat.
Muhammed is, as usual, there to help or to crack a joke.
‘When are you going to sell this junk? Last time you said when your son is 18.’ He was right. I had said this before just to get him off my back. I cleared my throat to hide my embarrassment. ‘Come to think of it, I deliberately took my time. ‘It’s going to be my special gift for my son’s wedding.’ Muhammed stood speechless for what seemed an eternity then stammered out, ‘I’ve met many freaks in my life, but you surely beat them all.’
I left him pondering human fickleness and tried to rationalise my attachment to my old car. I tried to convince myself that a car is human being. It had its heyday, served its time like a worthy warrior or companion, and now it’s time for him to retire. You don’t want a man to ditch his wife because she’s grown old and fat and ugly and marry a younger one instead? There are certain things I’d never dare.
Marrakech 2005
Radia
The Summer evening breeze was invigorating and the moon a perfect football in the cloudless blue sky. Somewhere a frog was singing its hymn to nature while dogs exchanged a litany of sounds familiar only to those accustomed to life in the countryside..
Rows of oblong, thatched houses stretched for around half a mile and converged towards an open stretch of land. In a similarly-built, nondescript house, Radia rose with nonchalance from the mat on which she had been sitting in the low-ceilinged room, and walked out to the drab kitchen in the front-yard. She cupped the candle in both her tiny hands, struggling against the summer breeze and proceeded inside the makeshift kitchen, adjacent to the stable. The latter hosted a cow, two goats and a score of hens and rabbits who seemed to cohabit in peace. Radia leaned over the pot that was simmering on smouldering charcoal, and started to stir the lamb and vegetables tagine. She added a pinch of salt and a little water, just enough to prevent the meat and vegetables from burning. Satisfied with the overall result, she put the lid on and walked in the direction of the stable. She thought she had heard a rustling noise and felt alarmed. In the past few months there were a number of burglaries in the village; goats and sheep had been stolen but the thieves were not caught yet.
When Radia realised the noise was just a figment of her imagination, she felt reassured and went back inside. It was late, as she could judge by the position of the stars in the sky. She sat cross-legged, leaned against the white washed wall and braced herself for a long vigil. Her husband, Rahhal, would be late for the eighth night in a row. Before dozing off, she rose again and stole a look inside the adjacent room that served as dormitory at night for her progeny and living-room during the day for her small family and any hypothetical guests. The candle flickered in the pitch dark room, and Radia took in a glance her offspring lying on the mat like sardines in a tin.
She tiptoed in order not to wake up the children, pulled down the curtain that served as door, and went back to resume her sitting position. It was going to be a long vigil. As the candle flames danced like puppets, Radia remembered the first time she met her husband.
She must have been 12 or 13 at the time. It was difficult to tell because the villagers didn't keep records of birth. Their lives were punctuated by major events ranging from a monarch's exile or enthronement to floods, calamities natural or man-made. That way, it was easy for the people to associate birth with major events than with a specific date.
She was playing in the wheat fields, picking narcissus and daisies, when her little brother came rushing, his long tunic billowed out by the wind like a parachute to summon her immediate presence at the house.
"We've got special guests today," her mother, Zahia, said in a non-committal tone that hardly concealed her excitement. Immediately Radia was scrubbed clean and treated to rudimentary make up--mascara for the eyes and liquorice for the gums which revealed healthy and white teeth. Then she was changed into her best colourful clothes: a long, loose garment with buttons running down the front, yellow tufts at the seams of the sleeves, and a red scarf that hid her ash-black hair except for a cowlick. She went inside the room, carrying a tray on which pots for tea, sugar and mint tea were neatly arranged. Radia walked almost like a hunchback, her eyes fixed on the floor. In a hurry, she put down the tray and withdrew quickly, but managed to catch a glimpse of her father, two men and three women engrossed in serious discussion. She couldn't make a word of it, but had the distinct feeling they were talking about her. The men she saw were the Sheikh, Hamou, a very powerful man whose tenor voice terrorised the little boys as well as the big ones. He derived his power from his wealth, which amounted to hundreds of hectares of the most fertile land for miles around. It was also enhanced by the political and spiritual authority he wielded over the villagers' lives. He was invested in such a power by the local authorities whose policy was to establish as head of the village someone who was rich, but at the same time loyal and ready to carry out the local authorities' orders. Radia was surprised at his presence in their humble dwelling, for it wasn't his custom to pay visits to his 'subjects'. So she guessed that something very serious must have dragged him from his busy affairs to their modest house. Radia didn't go back to her mother, but stood at the door eavesdropping. Looking through a crack in the worm-eaten door, she could only see her father's face, and evasive eyes. His attitude seemed to convey that he was in total agreement with his interlocutors. Could it be otherwise, she wondered. Could her father say or do anything that would displease, let alone contradict the Sheikh? Most unlikely. Hammou had come not to seek advice or reach compromise, but to hammer his points with the force of his one hundred acres and the social prestige that money could buy. Radia was lost in her reverie, when suddenly someone clipped her ears and caused her to jump with terror. Her aunt's strong hand tightened on her wrists like a vice. Then she began half carrying, half lifting her to her mother. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" shouted Zahia. "How many times do I have to tell you it's bad to listen to grown-ups behind doors?" Radia sought refuge in woman's traditional ally--silence and rubbed her ear which still hurt. After half an hour of nagging and remonstration, Radia was asked to clean her face and rearrange the make-up that ran down her cheeks, leaving a wide smear on her mouth and chin.
In the other room, she overheard half muted words and random exclamations punctuated by religious incantations. The last word which reached her ears was "Amen." Radia deduced that whatever deal was being fought or arranged on her behalf was finally clinched. And indeed a few moments later, she was summoned back to meet someone in an empty room which on other occasions served as a guest room. But this time the interview was private, restricted only to her own person and Hammou's wife-M'barka. The latter was a hefty woman in her late 50s, with powerful jaws and square shoulders. When she took off her "Izar", Radia could see rolls of fat on her stomach and thighs. Without ceremony, Radia was asked to open her mouth. M'barka felt Radia's teeth, starting first with the lower jaw and then the upper one. She pushed the index and forefinger inside, checking molars and pre-molars. So deep did she reach that Radia started to choke and was about to throw up. After she had finished with Radia's teeth, she asked her to undress. Radia felt apprehensive and reluctant, but the authoritative voice implied that the owner was used to being obeyed and so left her no choice, but to comply. Hadja inspected her supple silhouette from head to toes, pinched her firm nipples, squeezed her thighs and felt the white smooth skin around the pelvis. When she had finished with the check-up, she asked her to walk forth and back while she smacked her lips. Radia was unable to interpret the gesture. Did it imply satisfaction or suggest disappointment, she wondered. Only much later when Radia reported the encounter with Hadja to her mother did she understand the signification of the check-up ritual. Zahia told her that Hadja wanted to make sure her son would marry a healthy woman who could toil like a slave during the day and bear his sexual assaults at night. It was a mother's duty to ascertain that her daughter-in-law would be a good investment, not an invalid who had to be fed and clothed. Most importantly she had to be physically apt to beget a large progeny for her son.
Hadja was apparently content with the bride she had chosen for her son because a week later the marriage ceremony took place. Zahia told her daughter she would leave her father's house to live in her future husband's more imposing residence. She informed her of the easy life ahead--plenty of food (butter, honey, farm chicken) a far cry from the mere bread and tea that was the substance of their daily lunch. The mother was also quick to point out to her daughter some facts that were unknown to her. ''Always keep your eyes down when your husband addresses you," warned her mother. Radia nodded her head, but frowned at the expanding list of 'do' and 'not to do'. "One more thing you need to know: Never ever displease your mother-in-law. Don't try to contradict her or pretend you know better," added Zahia. In short, the mother advised Radia to always agree with her husband and in-laws, to refrain from formulating personal opinions, to be always clean and serviceable.
Radia was too excited to give undue attention to her mother's advice. She was gripped by the fever of the wedding ceremony and liked to imagine herself in a larger house, the mistress of her own destiny. She must be a very important person to be chosen by Hammou as a bride for his son. So she took pride in the thought that she was destined for greater things. Indeed for the next few days she was pampered, fussed about and taken care of, as if she were a toddler. Her mother and Aunt Rahma boiled water in a large tin basin and scrubbed her body with soap until the skin blistered and her back ached. Then they dyed her hair with henna and applied mascara to her eyes and rouge to her cheeks. When she was clean and fresh, they dressed her in colourful clothes and took her with other relatives to her husband's house. She mounted a she-donkey while her family and a few select neighbours followed behind. Some were singing and dancing while others beat drums and tambourines. Other women carried on their heads bundles which contained the bride's trousseau: a wool blanket, a few pillows, and a wooden box that held the young girl's precious jewellery--silver inklings, earrings, a pendant which had been transmitted from mother to daughter for generations. Half way, they were met by Hammou's clan who were similarly engaged in singing.
Hammou was rich and he could not dream of a better occasion than his son's marriage to ostentatiously show it. So he slaughtered two cows and ten sheep for the guests, and celebrations went on for a whole week. Radia had the feeling she was living in a dream: food was plentiful, wine ran in rivers and the "Cheikhates"--these professional female dancers, were the highlight of the night. They were more than superb in their scant clothes and their erotic belly dancing almost turned the feast into mayhem. In the tents pitched in the village square, old and young men had pitchers laid out in front of them, from which they poured red wine. The Sheikhates would stop in front of one of the men who offered them glasses which they gulped in a swing. The men were wild with excitement, oblivious of their sons who were similarly drunk, but out of sight, and of their wives who were watched from a distance. They couldn't hold back their husbands or reprimand them. Marriage was an occasion for the farmers to exhale. So they indulged in wine and flirtation for the whole night, for they knew only too well that the next day they would have to resume their dreary existence and would only live on the promise of another marriage, circumcision or baptism to escape once more a miserable life.
Late into the night, Radia and her husband were led by her M'barka and his sister to the bridegroom's room. Inside, incense and amber burnt in a censer. Before the family took leave, Radia and her husband had to step over the brazier, each time muttering a different formula to confound the jealous and dispel their envy. When the ritual was over, husband and wife were left to consume their marriage in peace.
As the door closed behind them, Radia felt ill-at-ease. She was apprehensive in the presence of the stranger who had become her husband. Radia had no idea about what was awaiting her. Her mother had simply told her "keep quiet, close your eyes, hold your breath and let him do it. It may hurt a bit, but it's no worse that a toothache or a headache."
A double wooden bed occupied almost all the room, which was a luxury as most people slept on mats on the floor. There was also a chair on which the husband had piled up his clothes and was standing up only in a loose white tunic. A candle provided dim light. Without ceremony, Rahhal invited her to take off her clothes, but Radia stood motionless, paralysed with the fear that ran through her body like an electric current. Rahhal who was drunk didn't wait for her to regain her senses, but jumped and tore the clothes off her back. She was taken aback by his sudden reaction, but remembering her mother's advice, she meekly obeyed. She jumped under the blankets when she realised she had only transparent trousers on. Rahal blew out the candle and began to kiss her on the mouth while with another hand he fumbled with her trousers. The smell of the cheap red wine was nauseating and her mouth and nostrils were filled with it. Soon she was panting under his impressive, huge body. Then without preamble, he pushed his knee between her legs and dug inside her. Immediately she felt a searing pain tear inside her and she cried out. All her life Radia would remember her husband's insane look as he went in and out of her and his indifference, as she pleaded with him to let go. He was a complete stranger to her, a predatory animal and she his helpless prey. When he had finished, he turned over and rose up without uttering a single word. Emotional involvement was unnecessary,sex was all that mattered for most men, as Radia would discover later. Now she looked helplessly around, but there was no one to turn to. She rose from her bed with difficulty and began to rearrange her dishevelled hair and smeared face. Her gown lay on the floor among Rahhal's slippers, fez and baggy trousers.
A few minutes later she could hear whispers at the threshold, but couldn't tell who it was. Then a gentle tap at the door, whichbecame a loud knock when she failed to answer. The knock became louder so she moved to the door. Standing there were M'barka, her sister-in-law and another woman whom she didn't know--probably one of those wizened women in the village whose sex expertise was highly sought on such occasions. ''How was it?" Snapped M'barka, brows tightly knit and voice trembling.
''How is what?" asked Radia. The mother-in-law brushed her aside, went inside the room, and started to look purposefully for something. ''Where's your trousers?'' Radia looked stunned then silently indicated the pile of clothes on the mat. The mother quickly grabbed them, then scrutinised the trousers against the smouldering candle light. pale red drops of blood could be seen on the white trousers. M'barka shouted something to the old wizened woman, who in turn relayed the information to other women waiting outside the bride's door. Soon piercing cries and shouts echoed through the whole compound. More people, mostly women and young girls who had apparently been waiting for this particular moment, converged towards the bride's room. At that moment M'barka, together with her daughter and a few women emerged from the room. One of the women carried on her head a tin platter in which the trousers had been placed for all to see. The trousers had suddenly metamorphosed into a war trophy. The women were ululating, beating the tambourines and singing to an ebullient crowd. ''look here, bachelors, the bride is virgin," sang a young girl. A chorus of women took up the refrain, "If you' re blind borrow five pairs of eyes."
The family's honour had been saved and so everybody was happy, especially Radia's mother. Now a large group of women were surrounding her and congratulating her on daughter's chastity. If Radia had not been virgin Zahia would have been held personally responsible. What was more, Radia would be beaten and divorced on the spot and her family would be unable to sustain people's pity, malice and their poisonous hearsay. The family would be an outcast and might have to leave the village.
Inside the room, Radia still felt dizzy. Her legs failed her, as she rose to sneak a look through the curtained window. She could hear people's jubilation outside and her sister's tenor voice extolling her purity. She felt closer to Zahra than at any time before. They were almost the same age. In fact, Zahra was a year younger, but was plump and already an exciting young woman for her age. Hammou's son would have married her had it not been for her bluntness. Radia couldn't help, but wonder at the way people rejoice over somebody's misery. It was her blood and pain they were marvelling at. Arab men were obsessed with spilling blood--when the fought and when they made love. It was vengeance more than love that animated them. It was strange that they had to demonstrate their love in the most barbarous manner.
Rahal was now snoring louder and louder. Radia contemplated the large grin on his face and wondered how his child-like man could be capable of so much savagery. She tried to find reasons for his aggressiveness: he had been drunk and was probably as afraid as she, and so was in a hurry to get over with the whole business.
The wedding night was as much a strain for the man as for the woman, especially if the man was a virgin himself. In fact it was much harder for the man because he had to prove his virility if not for himself, at least for his family and friends. And indeed there were times when the man bungled the job and found himself unable to provide the audience with the much valued blood. When this happened, however, man's honour had to be saved, so often his powerlessness was blamed on black magic. His sexual bloc was attributed to a spell concocted by a rival woman or a jilted lover. The services of a 'Fkih'--a well-versed expert in Satanism and witchcraft, were then sought to annul the charm and set free the sexual powers of the unfortunate husband. Rahhal was a man and he proved it in the most blatant way.
The next day Radia's mother and other relatives came to visit the newly weds and to congratulate her. They brought home-made bread, dates, goat milk, butter and jars of honey and olive oil. The food was meant to sustain the bride's health and accelerate the process of healing. Before taking leave they prayed for her felicity and asked God to make her as fertile as Hammou's land. Children were considered not only, as the Holy Book asserted, 'the joy of life', but also a guarantee against the whims of a husband and the vicissitudes of life.
Next day when most of the guests had left, life resumed its course in the same recognisable pattern or not so recognisable for Radia. When she had married she expected to live for her husband and the children to come, but the knock at the door in the early morning shattered any remaining illusions she might have nourished about one's 'home is his castle.' M'barka was standing at the door step to remind her of her marital duties. "The honeymoon is over! Time you earn the bread you eat." Radia blinked the sleep from her eyes, and tried to shake off the previous night's dream of green prairies and wild flowers. In a hurry, she dubbed her eyes with water as cold as ice and ran outside to find three other women already fully dressed and carrying on their backs empty baskets. The women were her husband's brothers' wives.
They walked in single file while the village lay in darkness. The villagers were still asleep except for an occasional dog barking, and roosters announcing the break of dawn in their particular way. The Muezzin was also reminding people of their religious duty. 'Prayer is better than sleep," he clamoured.
After a long walk, up winding footpaths and treacherous trails, the women finally stopped before a thick throng of trees. All along the walk the women had kept humming local tunes and making jokes of familiar faces in the village. They had been walking the beaten track ever since they were teenagers while Radia trod behind wondering why they had to get up so early. "Only death comes unexpectedly and early," her mother used to say. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she almost bumped into the woman at the front.
''Wake up, honey! We have a lot of work to do in a short time," said Fettouma, a woman in her twenties with a slight cripple. "Climb up that tree, cut off the dry branches and twigs and ease them down," ordered R'quia who was slightly older than Fettouma. Her hands were callous and rough--a testimony to a hard life. Radia climbed up the tree and began to tear at the branches, using a hoe and her hands to wrench twigs and boughs. It took her about half an hour to get the job done. The other women, who had acquired experience during their innumerable trekking to the nearby forest, were busy laying on the ground branches and arranging them according to length. Then methodically they tied them into large bundles which they set side by side. When they had finished with the bundles, they asked Radia to climb down. Then Fettouma ordered her to kneel and then placed two huge bundles on her back while each of the other two women carried similarly large bundles.
They silently moved on. Radia arched under the load but refrained from complaining. As the women walked in single file, Radia sought refuge in the green prairies of her dreams and fondly thought about her sister Zahra still sleeping peacefully in bed. How she missed the little secrets they both shared while seeking refuge from summer heat under the pomegranate and fig trees.
After what seemed like an eternity the village was finally within sight and Radia uttered her first words of the day "Will we have to gather wood every day? This was a remark that came to her on the spur of the moment, but wasn't addressed to any one of the women, in particular. Fettouma took the hint and said "Not tomorrow, but every Thursday that God Has created until the day your back breaks or your husband takes a younger wife." Either alternative was distasteful to Radia, but she wasn't in the mood to give the matter due attention.
The village was gradually awakening to life; smoke was rising from the numerous ovens and a myriad of sounds and sights indicated the beginning of another busy day. Rahhal was yawning when Radia went into the room, but didn't acknowledge her presence. A few minutes later another knock at the door, the omnipresent M'barka was standing with her hands akimbo. She wanted Radia to join the other women outside.
They were kneeling before dry twigs and trying to blow them into life. The sticks cracked as they caught fire and women began to kneed bread. Radia watched in fascination, as they poured warm water, added salt and leaven, and started kneading the dough, and moulding it into consistent masses, each the size of a handball. After a while, they shoved the dough inside the clay oven. "Better watch out," warned Fettouma. "Tomorrow will be your turn to bake the bread." Radia stopped snickering and looked on in apprehension as the women kept shovelling the bread in and out to check if it's not burnt. When bread was done, it was spread on a piece of cloth and immediately taken to the men who were sitting in a semi circle, around the paternal figure of Hammou. The women waited until the men had eaten bread together with olive oil and salted butter, before they were allowed to finish the morsels and drink cupfuls of tea. Shortly afterwards the men left for the fields, slinging over their shoulders pickets, hoes and axes to turn the land, get rid of herbs and prepare it for next year's sowing. Now it was the children's turn to wake up and be fed before they sauntered to play in the village compound or in the wheat fields.
When she had married, Radia thought she would have a house of her own and only a husband to look after before her own family grew and prospered, but now she discovered that marital life was more than the husband-wife game she used to play with her siblings and kids her own age.
As a matter of fact the Sheikh lived in an impressive house with his harem and his other sons' wives in adjacent rooms. He presided over a large family of sons, daughters, cousins, brothers and son's wives. In fact they were more of a clan than a family. The Sheikh was like a biblical figure, for his word was Gospel. He could make marriages, but also easily undo them and for that reason he was mostly feared by all. He held a life and death sentence over the compound residents' lives. Radia discovered that there was a rigid hierarchy that regulated the clan's life: at the top the Sheikh, beneath him his brothers and sons, in median position M'barka, her sisters and daughters. Radia realised she was at the mercy not only of her in-laws, but also of their kin. She was receiving orders which she had to execute without the slightest hesitation. Otherwise, there was someone ready to punish her.
She had a vivid memory of the first time when she had to bake bread. She had tried to follow the other women's instructions. She had made a hole in the concave 'kasria' and built a wall of semolina round it, poured water and added salt and started to knead. After a long time her shoulders began to hurt because she was half sitting half standing. When the dough rose, she cut it in similarly sized portions and shovelled them inside the oven one after the other. Then she walked away to stretch her stiff legs. Fifteen minutes later, she came back to the oven, removed the lid and withdrew the bread. It was then she realised the bread was slightly burnt. When she set the bread together with breakfast on the low table, M'barka flew in a rage. She slapped her hard with the palm of her hand on the face. "You silly idiot!" she had stormed "Do you think you' re still a child. If you ever burn the bread again, I'll break your neck." Tears welled in Radia's eyes, but nobody offered sympathy or consolation. Even her husband shot her a deadly look. That night she discovered his displeasure. Before going to bed he said " Bint Abou, you've put my pride in the dirt before my brothers and cousins. It won't be just words you'll hear from me next time you make such a blunder.'' When he addressed her he never used her name. She was just her father's daughter. That was how men dealt with their wives, not as fully grown people but as someone else's property. Radia thought he would be sympathetic and stand for her, but she was saddened to discover her dignity was the last thing he cared about. She swallowed her anger and shame in silence and offered to make him dinner instead. He murmured something she couldn't make out and went out. She stood befuddled, lost for words, and started to cry for the second time that day.
Next morning she had to get up with the crow, to fetch water from the fountain at the village confines, and cook lunch for the men who were tilling the land. The well belonged to the tribe who took turns to guard it and use it sparingly, for water was a scarcity after three years of drought. Radia threw the pail in the bottomless well and heard it strike against the side. When it was full, she started pulling it up. When it reached the surface she emptied it into a large basin then repeated the process over and over again. When the basin was full, she asked Hnia to haul it over to the she-donkey. Then they rode back to the village.
Hnia was Rahhal's younger brother's wife. She came from a nearby village. Her family were better-off than Radia's. She had been married for two years, but was still childless. Although she was a few years older than Radia, the latter felt strangely drawn to her. There was something that bonded them together--a sense of their frailty and the precariousness of their situation. On the few occasions when they were together, out of their mother-in-law's earshot, they managed to exchange a few intimacies.
Now Hnia was rather taciturn, which was queer considering her good nature and humour. "What's bothering you," volunteered Radia to break the ice. "It's again M'barka. She came to me two days ago and started to cross-examine me." "I shouldn't worry if I were you. She is just curious, you know." Radia said. "No, this is something different. She wants to know why it's taking me so long to beget a son. As if it's my fault. Only God gives and God takes, I told her."
Hnia had been married only two years, but the whole village was spreading all sorts of rumour about her. Once Radia heard Fatna at the day-market telling the public crier's wife, Zohra, "You know the latest? Hnia is as barren as a rock." To which the crier's wife responded "No wonder, her older sisters were also barren. It must be in the family's genes.'' Radia knew Hnia was under pressure because if the son didn't materialise she would be held responsible. It was all the times woman's fault; no one would dare question a man's virility or doubt the potentiality of his sperm. Radia had no words to console her. It was useless to feed her on false hopes. What use were words to a woman whose days as wife were counted. Out of solidarity, Radia said "Everything will be all right. With God's help, you'll get pregnant. But You have to visit Moulay Brahim's shrine and make a solemn promise to sacrifice a ram or sheep if this happens." For a second, Hnia's face lit up like a Christmas tree before her jowl dropped in dismay. ''But how can I travel to Marrakech when I have never left the village?" "You'll find a way out, I'm sure," Radia tried to be reassuring.
Hnia's pilgrim to Moulay Brahim's shrine was the talk of the village for the next few days. So when she came back from the holy visit, She was assailed by a host of women who wanted to know what she did at the shrine. Hnia suddenly found herself the centre of attraction and prolonged the suspense. After all, it wasn't within every body's means and reach to travel 100 kilometres on donkey's back or mule's. And more importantly it wasn't every day her advice and expertise were sought by curious and haughty women who didn't in the past deign speak to her at marriage gatherings and other social events. So Hnia took her time to relate her odyssey to the shrine. "After two days of travelling, the back hurts and your legs become stiff," began Hnia ''but then for the sake of children, I would go even to Holy Mecca. We bore the road's discomforts until we could ride no more so we stopped at a relative's house for refreshments and to allow donkeys and mules rest. Our relative was happy to see us after so much absence and insisted on our spending the night with them. But we refused. We were drawn by an irresistible urge to get to the shrine as soon as possible…" "I know the feeling,'' interrupted Khadija "Once you decide to visit his shrine, his holiness draws you like a magnet draws a nail. I remember " ''We haven't come to hear your story," intervened Yamna who found a secret pleasure to contradict every statement Khadija made. The two women's animosity was proverbial and the village people had problems quieting them once they were involved in an argument. ''you call your trip to Sidi Zouin a pilgrimage. He is after all just a disciple of Moulay Brahim and his miracles pale before the wonders of Moulay Brahim." Yamna glared at Khadija and was about to open her mouth hadn't Hnia intervened to put an end to the argument. Hnia had sensed that her importance as narrator was gradually being eroded and wanted to re-establish her authority. "If you interrupt me one more time again, I won't tell you about what happened at the shrine." Immediately voices rose to silence Yamna and Khadija. A death-like silence followed. The whole audience were spellbound, their eyes riveted on Hnia's mouth. Satisfied with the turn events took, Hnia cleared her throat and resumed the story in her deep-resonant voice. ''After we left my relative's house, we rode on for half a day until we reached the mountains. Then began a hair-raising journey through razor-like turns and break-neck bends. I was reciting Sourat Albaqara while M'barka sought refuge in her rosary. I could only see her lips moving, but heard no words. Maybe she was promising the Saint a black ram if he secured our safety. The man who held the mules was placid, his face didn't register the slightest motion. He must have travelled more dangerous roads. He hadn't spoken a word all the way since we started the journey. His task wasn't to keep us company, but to ward off real or imaginary dangers, and for that reason he was as silent as a corpse."
"Finally without any warning, the mountain suddenly receded, revealing a prairie with a shallow river. We heaved a sigh of relief at so narrow an escape and dismounted the mules to stretch our legs. There were tents facing the river and a market day was in progress. Our male companion announced a little break to drink and eat a bit. Now the holy saint shrine was not far, and oddly enough we felt his overwhelming present in the Souk, the tents, and the river. In fact his premises started at the river where we had to undergo a cleansing ritual before entering the Saint's shrine. We mounted a few steps that led to a spring. On the way we bought 'henna' and a few herbs that we needed for the washing ceremony. When we reached the spring we found an old woman with wrinkled face and callous hands presiding over the ceremony. The spring was half full of women who were half naked. More specifically, they were ordered to get rid of their underwear and were placed within the woman's reach.. The latter started pouring water over their heads and bodies. The water was very cold because it came from the melting snow upstream and descended all the way to the tiny spring. I followed suit and complied with the woman's orders without hesitation. I was shivering and shaking though it was May, but I was willing to walk on burning coal for the sake of children. When it was over I was energetically rubbed with a towel until dry and returned to M'barka who was taking everything in with the placidity of a red Indian. It was only when we mounted the mules again in the direction of the shrine that I dared ask her the question that was uppermost on her mind. 'Why do women have to leave their slips, mother?' I asked apprehensively. ' So that they can get rid of charms used against them by envious women,' came her curt answer and then resumed her solemn demeanour."
"An hour later the Saint's white washed dome rose in the distance majestically. At its sight, our male companion exclaimed 'May your holiness guard us against the whims of this life.' To which M'barka answered 'Amen!' "
"Gathered around the shrine were women of different ages. They were offering their services which ranged from a room to let for the night, to henna for the hands and legs. Shopkeepers hailed visitors to buy candles to be offered to the Saint. Later the candles were resold by the up-keepers of the shrine to the same shopkeepers at lower prices. Apparently a thriving business was going on around the dome."
"Before entering the shrine, I bought a half dozen candles and took off my slippers. It was a sacrilege to go inside the shrine with shoes on. Inside the rectangular room, a large wooden coffin which allegedly contained the Saint's bones and remains lay in the centre. It occupied almost the whole room. It was draped with a green and white cover with gold seams running all the length of the coffin. Some women were kneeling closer to the coffin; others were burying their heads under the silk covers and muttering a few indistinct formulas; a few were sitting on mats absorbed in deep thoughts. There was also a box on the right side as one entered the room, next to which sat an old man, probably in his sixties. His beard was as white as snow. He held in his hand an impressive rosary whose beads he passed through his fingers as he recited Coranic verses. Before leaving the saint's precincts, the supplicant had to drop some coins in the box to win the Saint's favours and accelerate the process of healing, marriage or whatever the reason behind the visit."
"I sat cross-legged and prayed in silence. Then I asked the Saint to give me male children. If my wish were satisfied I promised to slaughter a sheep to honour his memory. When I finished, I dropped a few coins in the box and heard the holy man thank me. Then I left the shrine with M'barka. We spent a few days in a room we had rented and paid daily visits to the Saint, imploring his help and intervention. After the seventh day, we headed home full of high hopes and great expectations."
When Hnia finished her tale, the visitors exchanged knowing glances which implied fascination with her eventful story and unshaken belief in the Saint's miraculous powers. Before they took leave of the one day heroine, they were given dates, henna and talisman Hnia had brought with her from the visit. Some of the women kissed the talisman with veneration while others wrapped it in white cloth as if it were gold and thanked her for thinking about them and wished her plenty of children.
Interest in Hnia's holy pilgrimage began to wan with the passing of time, as people became absorbed once more in their harsh living preoccupations. But when Hnia failed to beget a child, tongues were beginning to weave webs of tales about her sterility. Not for a second did the women put into question the holy man's powers. It was handy to blame the woman. Some said she was frigid; others advanced the hypothesis that she didn't follow the ritual meticulously. In any case, shortly after these rumours, the village woke up one day to discover that Hnia was a persona non-grata in her husband's house. Apparently under the insistence of his mother and family, the husband repudiated his wife and decided to take another woman. It was a simple as that.
During the next few months Radia would lie wide-awake at night. She couldn't get over Hnia's plight. Although divorce was a common practice, it was hard for Radia to accept as rational the explanations women advanced to account for Hnia's sterility. Somewhere there was a crack in their line of reasoning, but it was difficult for her to find it. Did the Saint fail her because the coins she placed in the box weren't substantial? Or did she do or say something that infuriated the Saint and antagonised him, wondered Radia. Maybe her anxiety was not solely due to what had befallen her friend. Then it dawned on her: She was anxious because she feared her husband would act likewise if it turned out she was barren. When she realised this, Radia sought help from her mother whose visit tended to get rarer these days.
On the appropriate occasion, Radia brought up the subject. "Mother, there's something that's bothering me," began Radia tentatively. "Have you quarrelled with your husband? I've warned you before," vociferated her mother. "No. This is not the case.'' "Then what is it? Is it your mother-in- law?'' Now a note of alarm was unmistakable in her voice. "To tell you God's truth, she's partially responsible." "Now stop speaking in riddles, and be plain,'' warned her mother." "All right! It's got to do with children. I'm afraid my husband may send me away if I can't bear him children.'' " Has he mentioned this or done anything that implied it? Wanted to know the mother. "No. It's not my husband who's bothering me, but his mother. For the last few days she's been insinuating things. She told me of Itou who married only last year and had already begotten twins. I feel she's implying it's my fault." Zahia scratched her forehead, her brows knit in deep thoughts, and began cross-examining her daughter. "Is Rahhal a man?" " What do you mean? Feigned Radia. "You know, there's some men who can't sleep without doing you know what. I mean some men are sex starved and would want to do it over and over again in the same night. So what about your husband?" Radia felt uncomfortable discussing her private life, even with her mother, but had to give an answer because she needed her help. So she volunteered "We do it every other day." The mother thought about this for a second, then said "If you want children, you have to be more aggressive than that." She wasn't apparently impressed with Rahhal's sexual performance so she added "There are certain days in the month that are more propitious for pregnancy than others, especially when the moon is a perfect ball. There's another thing you have to know: You need to feed him appropriately to stimulate his sexual appetite." Before the mother left her daughter, she had told her of special recipes and asked her to look after her appearance. How did the mother acquire all this knowledge when she was illiterate was a mystery to Radia. Maybe begetting too many children and listening to old women's private conversations was the answer, thought Radia.
When her mother had left, Radia tried to assess her sex life. Ever since the ill-famed night when she lost her virginity, sex was a routine difficult to skip, extend or end. Like the water she had to fetch every other day or the wood she gathered every Sunday. It was part of the tasks she had to fulfil and carry out as best as she could. Sex was a private affair left to the secrecy and intimacy of husband and wife. It was relatively easy to handle because it was private and so Radia was safe from curious people's sarcasm and judgement. The one who would decide over criteria of performance was her husband, and she trusted he would not be shouting what happened between them to his cousins or friends.
Sex was predictable and dreadfully monotonous. Every night he blew out the candle, and without preliminaries or even taking off his clothes, he would order her to ''open up your legs," and then mount her. She would close her eyes and lay quiet waiting for his passion to burn itself out. When he finished, she would rise from bed and wipe his sperm with a rag which she always hid beneath the pillow. She felt ashamed of herself every time she had to retrieve the rag, wash it and then chuck it under the pillow for a later use. Rahhal was unaware of the little ritual going on every night because he had developed his own routine: When sex was over, he would not utter a word, but turn over and soon fall asleep. It seemed to Radia that marital life, in the final analysis, boiled down to frustration and unfulfilment
Sex maybe important, but conception was all that mattered for the moment. So Radia set herself to the task with the devotion of a disciple. First she concocted dinner recipes made of various plants and herbs which she mixed with other aphrodisiacs and served to her husband on a daily basis. Then she started to pay attention to her appearance. After finishing the house chores, she would untie her long black hair that she used to cover with a scarf, smooth it with oil and let it fall. It was said that "A woman's half beauty was her hair'' and Radia's hair was as black as coal and reached her hips. Then she would apply a coat of rouge to her cheeks and lips and mascara to her eyes. To top it she would use a whiff of local perfume. A pleasant smell of orange and lavender would then permeate the room. Whether Rahhal had noticed the changes that had occurred in his wife he didn't say a word about it, but the alacrity with which he responded to her advances testified to a sudden surge in his libido. The encounters now had became a nightly reality and it was Radia who now opened her legs and closed them without his peremptory command. She tried to respond to his ardour, but found herself tied up in birth anxiety. While he drilled inside, panted, sweated, she was thinking of the son that would change her life and tame her enemies into silence if not respect. She would wake up from her revelries only after he collapsed, having burnt himself out in the effort to climax.
The first signs of physical discomfort began to show two months later. After a normal work day, Radia became unusually tired and worn out like a patient gradually waking up from a prolonged coma. At first she couldn't explain this state of lethargy, but when she began to throw up and to crave food other than the usual bread and tea which formed the core of her diet, she was alarmed. Again she sought her mother's advice and got it. She was relieved to hear she was pregnant and her joy soared to unprecedented heights. Radia quickly broke the happy news to her husband who was as happy as a lark. The same news brought only a curt comment from the M'barka. ''I hope it's going to be a healthy boy."
Despite her pregnancy, no treatment of favour was allotted Radia. She still had to get up with the rooster, fetch wood from the nearby forest, bring water every other day from the well, and bake bread for the whole clan. Albeit the fatigue, the occasional nagging of M'barka, the envy and jealousy she could read on her sisters-in-law's faces, she showed no despondency, anger or resignation. She bore her misfortune with fortitude. She knew what motivated her husband's brothers' wives' barely disguised hatred. If she bore a male child, their share of the Sheikh's property would diminish considerably. People were all the time dreaming up a relative's death or trying to precipitate it. Greed ruled the world, thought Radia with bitterness.
But for the time being, she had her self to look after and her baby to protect from the evil eye. Now she felt the baby grow inside her and give her from time to time little pricks. Strange sensations overwhelmed her, as the little helpless creature tried to communicate with her in its particular way.
At other times Radia had mixed feelings. She wasn't sure how to handle the boy or girl when s/he came into the world. Would s/he be normal, healthy, intelligent or a monster? But these thoughts assailed her only at night when sleep deserted her eyes. By morning she was her old self again and ready for her share of chores..
The first pangs of birth hit her when she least expected them. She was in the process of kneading the dough, when a series of searing contractions seized her. She sat motionless, gasping for breath. Then the contractions disappeared. After a few minutes, she resumed her kneading and decided to ask Halima about it when she was finished. In the afternoon, she went to her sister-in-law and told her what had happened. Halima smiled knowingly and said, "That's the beginning, honey. The baby is trying to tell you he wants to come into the world." "It wasn't nice of him to put it so forcefully," said Radia. "A first birth is always difficult; labour may drag on for 2 or 3 days before delivery. All you need to do is relax and pray."
The next day, a piercing cry woke the occupants of the house. Radia was writhing with pain and shouting at the top of her voice. Her husband sent for his mother who sent for the midwife. Meanwhile Radia was pacing the room and trying not to weep. When the mid-wife arrived, she immediately asserted her authority. She ordered water to be heated and asked for clean bed-sheets. She was a woman past her prime, and had delivered more births than anyone in the village could remember. She was proud to ascertain she had lost only two babies in her entire career. There was something professional in her manner, but also motherly. As she inspected Radia's pot-bellied stomach and examined her inflated feet. She nodded her head and asked for tea. Apparently a long vigil awaited them. As the first rays of the sun hit the room, Radia was eagle-spread on the wooden bed, while two women stood at her head. She began to scream when the contractions came at regular intervals, each time, more painful than the previous one. A woman wiped the sweat from Radia's face and brows while the mid-wife asked Radia to "push, push, push." When Radia thought that she was finally going to die, the baby came rushing out, as if he himself had enough of waiting. A woman let out a piercing cry to announce the birth of the baby. The women surrounded Radia to inquire about her condition, but the midwife asked them to leave her in peace.
The next day, Radia woke up exhausted and distraught. She had a strange dream. She dreamed she was caught in a blaze. She was surrounded by fires and was trying to run, but couldn't. Finally some anonymous hand pulled her through. Radia found herself still shaking from the previous night's nightmare. She looked around and saw her mother standing at her side. "Thank God! you' re still alive. You were raving, tossing and turning in your sleep." Radia's face registered simultaneously shock and disbelief. "What's wrong with me, mother! I can't feel my feet," complained Radia in a tired voice.
"When a woman is about to give birth, she has one foot in this world and the other one in the other world," answered the mother. Suddenly the word, birth, triggered in Radia's mind a weird reaction. She began to shout, "Where's the baby? I want my baby, give me my baby." Her mother tried to calm her down while another woman brought a little baby wrapped up in a wool blanket and handed it to Radia. "We didn't give you the baby right away because you fainted," assured the mother. Radia didn't hear her mother's words because her eyes were glued on the little thing that was staring back at her. So inexpressive was the look on its face that she wondered whether it wasn't dead. The little hands were helplessly dangling and the whole body was so frail she felt it could break if she mishandled it. It was only when she was reassured that the baby was normal and healthy that she asked about his sex. Her mother faltered for a second, but M'barka who had been silent throughout the dialogue, deliberately spit out the words. "It's a girl!'' There was a note of triumph in her tone, almost of disguised pleasure. Radia' s reaction was prompt ''Take her away! I don't want to see her." She was almost hysterical now, shaking her head from left to right and banging it on the bed panel. Was she overreacting to the birth of a girl? Or was it the reaction of her mother's shameful look and mother-in-law's triumphant tone that made her renounce, almost hate the baby that had just been born? The baby was snatched from her hands and taken to a safer place. It took Radia some time to calm down and stop shouting.
During the following days, Radia lapsed into melancholy, refused to eat or to breastfeed the baby. This sudden change from euphoria to gloom was accentuated by Rahhal's reaction when he discovered that Radia had given birth to a girl. "His face darkened and he left the room immediately without even taking the baby in his arms," had reported Radia's mother.
A substitute mother was momentarily found to feed the baby who was now crying most of the time and making everybody tense. Rahhal was spending most of his time outside and coming back late at night. He didn't speak to Radia, but would gobble down the meagre meal Radia's mother had prepared and go out again. Radia's plight lasted a month, and her eyes were red from too much crying. Her loneliness had become unbearable and suffocating. One morning, however, she woke up from her state of lethargy and asked that the baby be brought to her. Was it a mother's instinct? Or a feeling of guilt at having abandoned her baby that pushed her to change her mind? When she held her in her arms, she felt something stir inside.
The baby was serene. She grabbed her hand and looked at her so tenderly that Radia's heart melted and she began to cry. Rahhal seemed resigned and brow-beaten. Motherhood was no excuse for laziness; it was more of a duty than a privilege. M'barka was soon reminding Radia that she had a duty to the family into which she had married and therefore was asked to move you-know-what, as soon as possible.
As the years went by, the family grew from a mere baby girl to 4 kids. To get over the disappointment of Zaida's birth, Radia became a baby producing machine. The births came at the rate of one every two years, but they were most of the time a matter of frustration, gloom and tension when a boy refused to honour Rahhal's household. Radia was so desperate to beget a boy that she did everything heard, recommended or whispered about by older women. The fantastic remedies ranged from swallowing a live snake, to eating a hedgehog. The poor thing had his legs tied up with a string before being served. in couscous. It was such a grotesque sight to behold. After many failed attempts and the realisation that the magical potions and herbal recipes were ineffective, she considered hysterectomy. Finally when everybody thought it was hopeless, Radia gave birth to twins who were named Hassan and Hussein after the prophet's daughter's sons. Rahhal was in 7th heaven. To express his happiness he gave a huge banquet that lasted seven days and got the whole village talking for days on end.
Radia was proud of her daughter, Zaida who despite the odds of her birth, the hardly disguised loathing of her father and the animosity of her in-laws survived to prove them all wrong. Ever since her birth through childhood she had watched her grow independent, resourceful and strong in her emotions. She was not afraid to engage in a fight to assert her authority or right a wrong. She didn't mince her words when somebody attempted to pull up her leg. Secretly Radia encouraged her to mix with boys and girls. Was she trying to make up for her own wretched childhood? But it was a fact that boys as well as girls feared both her acerbic remarks and her fist. "Mama, look what Zaida did to me." Radia would inspect her son's blue eye and say "Bad Zaida! I'll give her a sound beating when she returns." And when Zaida came home, wearing a defiant look on her face, her lips tight shut, Radia's resolution would melt and so her tone become conciliatory. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself? How many times do I have to tell you to avoid fights? How many brothers do you have? "Mama, it was his fault. He wanted to steal the bird I had caught." "So you did go tree climbing against my warning," Radia would remind her. "It was his idea," retorted Zaida. And so it went on like this every time someone got a blue eye or injured a leg or lost a tooth. It was hopeless to bring her to reason or to soothe her. Even the village women started taunting Radia. "If you don't bend her will now, she won't find a husband," someone would say. "Who would want a tomboy for a wife," would add a neighbour. If marriage meant cooking, washing, opening your legs now and then and sustaining injustice without responding, it was only common sense to abstain.
Zaida was the oldest of her siblings and the one closest to her mother. Their lives had been closely linked, from the start. Radia remembered what both had endured and felt tears rise in her eyes at the recollection. The rejection of Zaida by her in-laws and even her father was compounded by Radia's initial loathing of her own daughter. But then she had been under so much pressure that she could not have acted differently without further antagonising her husband and his powerful relatives. She too was a victim of social conditioning that valued males over females.
Radia was more fond of Zaida than of her sister Rabia. She Knew it was not fair to discriminate against one's own daughter, but she could not help it. Maybe she felt resentful of Rabia because she realised she was a copy of herself. And as such she would be always walking in someone's shoes, a shadowy figure. Most probably she would marry someone who would make her life hellish and she would put up with it for the sake of her own kids. Rabia would always remind Radia of her failed life and for that reason she felt taciturn in her daughter's presence.
Zaida was different and special. She would accept nothing short of equality in a relationship. Radia wanted the best for her daughter, but her desire to improve her situation was thwarted by the patriarchal stand that reduced woman's place to home. Although Zaida didn't go beyond first grade, she was very bright and handy with her hands. She sewed, did needle work and helped her mother with household chores.
Despite the physical affinities, the twins had different characters. Hassan who was born half an hour before his brother was a tender, sensitive and easy going boy. Even today as a tall, haggard boy he had remained aloof, withdrawn. He seemed to delight only in his music tapes and books. He was scribbling things in his notebook which Zaida described as poems. He had the mantle of an artist but Radia wasn't happy with the prospect of her son becoming an artist, for there was no future for artists in their country. She would want her son to become a soldier or a policeman because people in her village respected the representatives of law and authority. But Hassan had developed an allergy to power and those who represent it.
Hussein on the contrary was a healthy, strong boy, much bigger than his 12 years. He was Epicurean at heart; he liked to eat, play and enjoy the best things in life. He also liked to play practical jokes on almost everyone. He wasn't given to reading like his older brother, but preferred outdoors. He enjoyed swimming in the river, catching scorpion with a rubber elastic or riding a horse to the day- market with his father. But his erratic lifestyle was often cause for concern for his mother. On a number of occasions, neighbours would rush to Rahhal's house to complain about Hussein's indecent behaviour. "Your son has once again pestered our daughter, R'kia," complained Itou. "You should marry him or chain him in a niche like a dog." Radia would try to comfort the whining woman and promise to put her son at his place. And when the son came back from his loitering, she would pinch his ears and lash out a him "I'm going to find you a wife if you don't stop pestering all the village's girls." "I don't want to marry. I have better things to do." It was always the same response she got till she was fed up with the whole matter and dropped it from her mind. What was the use of begetting boys who were now almost adults, when one wanted to become an artist and the other was good only at running after girls, wondered Radia.
As the children grew older, they became less wise. Radia was having serious difficulties tempering their exuberance and withstanding at the same time the onslaught of a distracted and unpredictable husband. Each day the gap grew and communication reduced to onomatopoeic utterances. They had become strangers under the same roof. What kept people together when they had become strangers was unfathomable. Radia stayed for lack of a better alternative while Rahal probably lacked the nerve and guts to desert his wife and kids and start life elsewhere.
The Summer evening breeze was invigorating and the moon a perfect football in the cloudless blue sky. Somewhere a frog was singing its hymn to nature while dogs exchanged a litany of sounds familiar only to those accustomed to life in the countryside..
Rows of oblong, thatched houses stretched for around half a mile and converged towards an open stretch of land. In a similarly-built, nondescript house, Radia rose with nonchalance from the mat on which she had been sitting in the low-ceilinged room, and walked out to the drab kitchen in the front-yard. She cupped the candle in both her tiny hands, struggling against the summer breeze and proceeded inside the makeshift kitchen, adjacent to the stable. The latter hosted a cow, two goats and a score of hens and rabbits who seemed to cohabit in peace. Radia leaned over the pot that was simmering on smouldering charcoal, and started to stir the lamb and vegetables tagine. She added a pinch of salt and a little water, just enough to prevent the meat and vegetables from burning. Satisfied with the overall result, she put the lid on and walked in the direction of the stable. She thought she had heard a rustling noise and felt alarmed. In the past few months there were a number of burglaries in the village; goats and sheep had been stolen but the thieves were not caught yet.
When Radia realised the noise was just a figment of her imagination, she felt reassured and went back inside. It was late, as she could judge by the position of the stars in the sky. She sat cross-legged, leaned against the white washed wall and braced herself for a long vigil. Her husband, Rahhal, would be late for the eighth night in a row. Before dozing off, she rose again and stole a look inside the adjacent room that served as dormitory at night for her progeny and living-room during the day for her small family and any hypothetical guests. The candle flickered in the pitch dark room, and Radia took in a glance her offspring lying on the mat like sardines in a tin.
She tiptoed in order not to wake up the children, pulled down the curtain that served as door, and went back to resume her sitting position. It was going to be a long vigil. As the candle flames danced like puppets, Radia remembered the first time she met her husband.
She must have been 12 or 13 at the time. It was difficult to tell because the villagers didn't keep records of birth. Their lives were punctuated by major events ranging from a monarch's exile or enthronement to floods, calamities natural or man-made. That way, it was easy for the people to associate birth with major events than with a specific date.
She was playing in the wheat fields, picking narcissus and daisies, when her little brother came rushing, his long tunic billowed out by the wind like a parachute to summon her immediate presence at the house.
"We've got special guests today," her mother, Zahia, said in a non-committal tone that hardly concealed her excitement. Immediately Radia was scrubbed clean and treated to rudimentary make up--mascara for the eyes and liquorice for the gums which revealed healthy and white teeth. Then she was changed into her best colourful clothes: a long, loose garment with buttons running down the front, yellow tufts at the seams of the sleeves, and a red scarf that hid her ash-black hair except for a cowlick. She went inside the room, carrying a tray on which pots for tea, sugar and mint tea were neatly arranged. Radia walked almost like a hunchback, her eyes fixed on the floor. In a hurry, she put down the tray and withdrew quickly, but managed to catch a glimpse of her father, two men and three women engrossed in serious discussion. She couldn't make a word of it, but had the distinct feeling they were talking about her. The men she saw were the Sheikh, Hamou, a very powerful man whose tenor voice terrorised the little boys as well as the big ones. He derived his power from his wealth, which amounted to hundreds of hectares of the most fertile land for miles around. It was also enhanced by the political and spiritual authority he wielded over the villagers' lives. He was invested in such a power by the local authorities whose policy was to establish as head of the village someone who was rich, but at the same time loyal and ready to carry out the local authorities' orders. Radia was surprised at his presence in their humble dwelling, for it wasn't his custom to pay visits to his 'subjects'. So she guessed that something very serious must have dragged him from his busy affairs to their modest house. Radia didn't go back to her mother, but stood at the door eavesdropping. Looking through a crack in the worm-eaten door, she could only see her father's face, and evasive eyes. His attitude seemed to convey that he was in total agreement with his interlocutors. Could it be otherwise, she wondered. Could her father say or do anything that would displease, let alone contradict the Sheikh? Most unlikely. Hammou had come not to seek advice or reach compromise, but to hammer his points with the force of his one hundred acres and the social prestige that money could buy. Radia was lost in her reverie, when suddenly someone clipped her ears and caused her to jump with terror. Her aunt's strong hand tightened on her wrists like a vice. Then she began half carrying, half lifting her to her mother. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" shouted Zahia. "How many times do I have to tell you it's bad to listen to grown-ups behind doors?" Radia sought refuge in woman's traditional ally--silence and rubbed her ear which still hurt. After half an hour of nagging and remonstration, Radia was asked to clean her face and rearrange the make-up that ran down her cheeks, leaving a wide smear on her mouth and chin.
In the other room, she overheard half muted words and random exclamations punctuated by religious incantations. The last word which reached her ears was "Amen." Radia deduced that whatever deal was being fought or arranged on her behalf was finally clinched. And indeed a few moments later, she was summoned back to meet someone in an empty room which on other occasions served as a guest room. But this time the interview was private, restricted only to her own person and Hammou's wife-M'barka. The latter was a hefty woman in her late 50s, with powerful jaws and square shoulders. When she took off her "Izar", Radia could see rolls of fat on her stomach and thighs. Without ceremony, Radia was asked to open her mouth. M'barka felt Radia's teeth, starting first with the lower jaw and then the upper one. She pushed the index and forefinger inside, checking molars and pre-molars. So deep did she reach that Radia started to choke and was about to throw up. After she had finished with Radia's teeth, she asked her to undress. Radia felt apprehensive and reluctant, but the authoritative voice implied that the owner was used to being obeyed and so left her no choice, but to comply. Hadja inspected her supple silhouette from head to toes, pinched her firm nipples, squeezed her thighs and felt the white smooth skin around the pelvis. When she had finished with the check-up, she asked her to walk forth and back while she smacked her lips. Radia was unable to interpret the gesture. Did it imply satisfaction or suggest disappointment, she wondered. Only much later when Radia reported the encounter with Hadja to her mother did she understand the signification of the check-up ritual. Zahia told her that Hadja wanted to make sure her son would marry a healthy woman who could toil like a slave during the day and bear his sexual assaults at night. It was a mother's duty to ascertain that her daughter-in-law would be a good investment, not an invalid who had to be fed and clothed. Most importantly she had to be physically apt to beget a large progeny for her son.
Hadja was apparently content with the bride she had chosen for her son because a week later the marriage ceremony took place. Zahia told her daughter she would leave her father's house to live in her future husband's more imposing residence. She informed her of the easy life ahead--plenty of food (butter, honey, farm chicken) a far cry from the mere bread and tea that was the substance of their daily lunch. The mother was also quick to point out to her daughter some facts that were unknown to her. ''Always keep your eyes down when your husband addresses you," warned her mother. Radia nodded her head, but frowned at the expanding list of 'do' and 'not to do'. "One more thing you need to know: Never ever displease your mother-in-law. Don't try to contradict her or pretend you know better," added Zahia. In short, the mother advised Radia to always agree with her husband and in-laws, to refrain from formulating personal opinions, to be always clean and serviceable.
Radia was too excited to give undue attention to her mother's advice. She was gripped by the fever of the wedding ceremony and liked to imagine herself in a larger house, the mistress of her own destiny. She must be a very important person to be chosen by Hammou as a bride for his son. So she took pride in the thought that she was destined for greater things. Indeed for the next few days she was pampered, fussed about and taken care of, as if she were a toddler. Her mother and Aunt Rahma boiled water in a large tin basin and scrubbed her body with soap until the skin blistered and her back ached. Then they dyed her hair with henna and applied mascara to her eyes and rouge to her cheeks. When she was clean and fresh, they dressed her in colourful clothes and took her with other relatives to her husband's house. She mounted a she-donkey while her family and a few select neighbours followed behind. Some were singing and dancing while others beat drums and tambourines. Other women carried on their heads bundles which contained the bride's trousseau: a wool blanket, a few pillows, and a wooden box that held the young girl's precious jewellery--silver inklings, earrings, a pendant which had been transmitted from mother to daughter for generations. Half way, they were met by Hammou's clan who were similarly engaged in singing.
Hammou was rich and he could not dream of a better occasion than his son's marriage to ostentatiously show it. So he slaughtered two cows and ten sheep for the guests, and celebrations went on for a whole week. Radia had the feeling she was living in a dream: food was plentiful, wine ran in rivers and the "Cheikhates"--these professional female dancers, were the highlight of the night. They were more than superb in their scant clothes and their erotic belly dancing almost turned the feast into mayhem. In the tents pitched in the village square, old and young men had pitchers laid out in front of them, from which they poured red wine. The Sheikhates would stop in front of one of the men who offered them glasses which they gulped in a swing. The men were wild with excitement, oblivious of their sons who were similarly drunk, but out of sight, and of their wives who were watched from a distance. They couldn't hold back their husbands or reprimand them. Marriage was an occasion for the farmers to exhale. So they indulged in wine and flirtation for the whole night, for they knew only too well that the next day they would have to resume their dreary existence and would only live on the promise of another marriage, circumcision or baptism to escape once more a miserable life.
Late into the night, Radia and her husband were led by her M'barka and his sister to the bridegroom's room. Inside, incense and amber burnt in a censer. Before the family took leave, Radia and her husband had to step over the brazier, each time muttering a different formula to confound the jealous and dispel their envy. When the ritual was over, husband and wife were left to consume their marriage in peace.
As the door closed behind them, Radia felt ill-at-ease. She was apprehensive in the presence of the stranger who had become her husband. Radia had no idea about what was awaiting her. Her mother had simply told her "keep quiet, close your eyes, hold your breath and let him do it. It may hurt a bit, but it's no worse that a toothache or a headache."
A double wooden bed occupied almost all the room, which was a luxury as most people slept on mats on the floor. There was also a chair on which the husband had piled up his clothes and was standing up only in a loose white tunic. A candle provided dim light. Without ceremony, Rahhal invited her to take off her clothes, but Radia stood motionless, paralysed with the fear that ran through her body like an electric current. Rahhal who was drunk didn't wait for her to regain her senses, but jumped and tore the clothes off her back. She was taken aback by his sudden reaction, but remembering her mother's advice, she meekly obeyed. She jumped under the blankets when she realised she had only transparent trousers on. Rahal blew out the candle and began to kiss her on the mouth while with another hand he fumbled with her trousers. The smell of the cheap red wine was nauseating and her mouth and nostrils were filled with it. Soon she was panting under his impressive, huge body. Then without preamble, he pushed his knee between her legs and dug inside her. Immediately she felt a searing pain tear inside her and she cried out. All her life Radia would remember her husband's insane look as he went in and out of her and his indifference, as she pleaded with him to let go. He was a complete stranger to her, a predatory animal and she his helpless prey. When he had finished, he turned over and rose up without uttering a single word. Emotional involvement was unnecessary,sex was all that mattered for most men, as Radia would discover later. Now she looked helplessly around, but there was no one to turn to. She rose from her bed with difficulty and began to rearrange her dishevelled hair and smeared face. Her gown lay on the floor among Rahhal's slippers, fez and baggy trousers.
A few minutes later she could hear whispers at the threshold, but couldn't tell who it was. Then a gentle tap at the door, whichbecame a loud knock when she failed to answer. The knock became louder so she moved to the door. Standing there were M'barka, her sister-in-law and another woman whom she didn't know--probably one of those wizened women in the village whose sex expertise was highly sought on such occasions. ''How was it?" Snapped M'barka, brows tightly knit and voice trembling.
''How is what?" asked Radia. The mother-in-law brushed her aside, went inside the room, and started to look purposefully for something. ''Where's your trousers?'' Radia looked stunned then silently indicated the pile of clothes on the mat. The mother quickly grabbed them, then scrutinised the trousers against the smouldering candle light. pale red drops of blood could be seen on the white trousers. M'barka shouted something to the old wizened woman, who in turn relayed the information to other women waiting outside the bride's door. Soon piercing cries and shouts echoed through the whole compound. More people, mostly women and young girls who had apparently been waiting for this particular moment, converged towards the bride's room. At that moment M'barka, together with her daughter and a few women emerged from the room. One of the women carried on her head a tin platter in which the trousers had been placed for all to see. The trousers had suddenly metamorphosed into a war trophy. The women were ululating, beating the tambourines and singing to an ebullient crowd. ''look here, bachelors, the bride is virgin," sang a young girl. A chorus of women took up the refrain, "If you' re blind borrow five pairs of eyes."
The family's honour had been saved and so everybody was happy, especially Radia's mother. Now a large group of women were surrounding her and congratulating her on daughter's chastity. If Radia had not been virgin Zahia would have been held personally responsible. What was more, Radia would be beaten and divorced on the spot and her family would be unable to sustain people's pity, malice and their poisonous hearsay. The family would be an outcast and might have to leave the village.
Inside the room, Radia still felt dizzy. Her legs failed her, as she rose to sneak a look through the curtained window. She could hear people's jubilation outside and her sister's tenor voice extolling her purity. She felt closer to Zahra than at any time before. They were almost the same age. In fact, Zahra was a year younger, but was plump and already an exciting young woman for her age. Hammou's son would have married her had it not been for her bluntness. Radia couldn't help, but wonder at the way people rejoice over somebody's misery. It was her blood and pain they were marvelling at. Arab men were obsessed with spilling blood--when the fought and when they made love. It was vengeance more than love that animated them. It was strange that they had to demonstrate their love in the most barbarous manner.
Rahal was now snoring louder and louder. Radia contemplated the large grin on his face and wondered how his child-like man could be capable of so much savagery. She tried to find reasons for his aggressiveness: he had been drunk and was probably as afraid as she, and so was in a hurry to get over with the whole business.
The wedding night was as much a strain for the man as for the woman, especially if the man was a virgin himself. In fact it was much harder for the man because he had to prove his virility if not for himself, at least for his family and friends. And indeed there were times when the man bungled the job and found himself unable to provide the audience with the much valued blood. When this happened, however, man's honour had to be saved, so often his powerlessness was blamed on black magic. His sexual bloc was attributed to a spell concocted by a rival woman or a jilted lover. The services of a 'Fkih'--a well-versed expert in Satanism and witchcraft, were then sought to annul the charm and set free the sexual powers of the unfortunate husband. Rahhal was a man and he proved it in the most blatant way.
The next day Radia's mother and other relatives came to visit the newly weds and to congratulate her. They brought home-made bread, dates, goat milk, butter and jars of honey and olive oil. The food was meant to sustain the bride's health and accelerate the process of healing. Before taking leave they prayed for her felicity and asked God to make her as fertile as Hammou's land. Children were considered not only, as the Holy Book asserted, 'the joy of life', but also a guarantee against the whims of a husband and the vicissitudes of life.
Next day when most of the guests had left, life resumed its course in the same recognisable pattern or not so recognisable for Radia. When she had married she expected to live for her husband and the children to come, but the knock at the door in the early morning shattered any remaining illusions she might have nourished about one's 'home is his castle.' M'barka was standing at the door step to remind her of her marital duties. "The honeymoon is over! Time you earn the bread you eat." Radia blinked the sleep from her eyes, and tried to shake off the previous night's dream of green prairies and wild flowers. In a hurry, she dubbed her eyes with water as cold as ice and ran outside to find three other women already fully dressed and carrying on their backs empty baskets. The women were her husband's brothers' wives.
They walked in single file while the village lay in darkness. The villagers were still asleep except for an occasional dog barking, and roosters announcing the break of dawn in their particular way. The Muezzin was also reminding people of their religious duty. 'Prayer is better than sleep," he clamoured.
After a long walk, up winding footpaths and treacherous trails, the women finally stopped before a thick throng of trees. All along the walk the women had kept humming local tunes and making jokes of familiar faces in the village. They had been walking the beaten track ever since they were teenagers while Radia trod behind wondering why they had to get up so early. "Only death comes unexpectedly and early," her mother used to say. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she almost bumped into the woman at the front.
''Wake up, honey! We have a lot of work to do in a short time," said Fettouma, a woman in her twenties with a slight cripple. "Climb up that tree, cut off the dry branches and twigs and ease them down," ordered R'quia who was slightly older than Fettouma. Her hands were callous and rough--a testimony to a hard life. Radia climbed up the tree and began to tear at the branches, using a hoe and her hands to wrench twigs and boughs. It took her about half an hour to get the job done. The other women, who had acquired experience during their innumerable trekking to the nearby forest, were busy laying on the ground branches and arranging them according to length. Then methodically they tied them into large bundles which they set side by side. When they had finished with the bundles, they asked Radia to climb down. Then Fettouma ordered her to kneel and then placed two huge bundles on her back while each of the other two women carried similarly large bundles.
They silently moved on. Radia arched under the load but refrained from complaining. As the women walked in single file, Radia sought refuge in the green prairies of her dreams and fondly thought about her sister Zahra still sleeping peacefully in bed. How she missed the little secrets they both shared while seeking refuge from summer heat under the pomegranate and fig trees.
After what seemed like an eternity the village was finally within sight and Radia uttered her first words of the day "Will we have to gather wood every day? This was a remark that came to her on the spur of the moment, but wasn't addressed to any one of the women, in particular. Fettouma took the hint and said "Not tomorrow, but every Thursday that God Has created until the day your back breaks or your husband takes a younger wife." Either alternative was distasteful to Radia, but she wasn't in the mood to give the matter due attention.
The village was gradually awakening to life; smoke was rising from the numerous ovens and a myriad of sounds and sights indicated the beginning of another busy day. Rahhal was yawning when Radia went into the room, but didn't acknowledge her presence. A few minutes later another knock at the door, the omnipresent M'barka was standing with her hands akimbo. She wanted Radia to join the other women outside.
They were kneeling before dry twigs and trying to blow them into life. The sticks cracked as they caught fire and women began to kneed bread. Radia watched in fascination, as they poured warm water, added salt and leaven, and started kneading the dough, and moulding it into consistent masses, each the size of a handball. After a while, they shoved the dough inside the clay oven. "Better watch out," warned Fettouma. "Tomorrow will be your turn to bake the bread." Radia stopped snickering and looked on in apprehension as the women kept shovelling the bread in and out to check if it's not burnt. When bread was done, it was spread on a piece of cloth and immediately taken to the men who were sitting in a semi circle, around the paternal figure of Hammou. The women waited until the men had eaten bread together with olive oil and salted butter, before they were allowed to finish the morsels and drink cupfuls of tea. Shortly afterwards the men left for the fields, slinging over their shoulders pickets, hoes and axes to turn the land, get rid of herbs and prepare it for next year's sowing. Now it was the children's turn to wake up and be fed before they sauntered to play in the village compound or in the wheat fields.
When she had married, Radia thought she would have a house of her own and only a husband to look after before her own family grew and prospered, but now she discovered that marital life was more than the husband-wife game she used to play with her siblings and kids her own age.
As a matter of fact the Sheikh lived in an impressive house with his harem and his other sons' wives in adjacent rooms. He presided over a large family of sons, daughters, cousins, brothers and son's wives. In fact they were more of a clan than a family. The Sheikh was like a biblical figure, for his word was Gospel. He could make marriages, but also easily undo them and for that reason he was mostly feared by all. He held a life and death sentence over the compound residents' lives. Radia discovered that there was a rigid hierarchy that regulated the clan's life: at the top the Sheikh, beneath him his brothers and sons, in median position M'barka, her sisters and daughters. Radia realised she was at the mercy not only of her in-laws, but also of their kin. She was receiving orders which she had to execute without the slightest hesitation. Otherwise, there was someone ready to punish her.
She had a vivid memory of the first time when she had to bake bread. She had tried to follow the other women's instructions. She had made a hole in the concave 'kasria' and built a wall of semolina round it, poured water and added salt and started to knead. After a long time her shoulders began to hurt because she was half sitting half standing. When the dough rose, she cut it in similarly sized portions and shovelled them inside the oven one after the other. Then she walked away to stretch her stiff legs. Fifteen minutes later, she came back to the oven, removed the lid and withdrew the bread. It was then she realised the bread was slightly burnt. When she set the bread together with breakfast on the low table, M'barka flew in a rage. She slapped her hard with the palm of her hand on the face. "You silly idiot!" she had stormed "Do you think you' re still a child. If you ever burn the bread again, I'll break your neck." Tears welled in Radia's eyes, but nobody offered sympathy or consolation. Even her husband shot her a deadly look. That night she discovered his displeasure. Before going to bed he said " Bint Abou, you've put my pride in the dirt before my brothers and cousins. It won't be just words you'll hear from me next time you make such a blunder.'' When he addressed her he never used her name. She was just her father's daughter. That was how men dealt with their wives, not as fully grown people but as someone else's property. Radia thought he would be sympathetic and stand for her, but she was saddened to discover her dignity was the last thing he cared about. She swallowed her anger and shame in silence and offered to make him dinner instead. He murmured something she couldn't make out and went out. She stood befuddled, lost for words, and started to cry for the second time that day.
Next morning she had to get up with the crow, to fetch water from the fountain at the village confines, and cook lunch for the men who were tilling the land. The well belonged to the tribe who took turns to guard it and use it sparingly, for water was a scarcity after three years of drought. Radia threw the pail in the bottomless well and heard it strike against the side. When it was full, she started pulling it up. When it reached the surface she emptied it into a large basin then repeated the process over and over again. When the basin was full, she asked Hnia to haul it over to the she-donkey. Then they rode back to the village.
Hnia was Rahhal's younger brother's wife. She came from a nearby village. Her family were better-off than Radia's. She had been married for two years, but was still childless. Although she was a few years older than Radia, the latter felt strangely drawn to her. There was something that bonded them together--a sense of their frailty and the precariousness of their situation. On the few occasions when they were together, out of their mother-in-law's earshot, they managed to exchange a few intimacies.
Now Hnia was rather taciturn, which was queer considering her good nature and humour. "What's bothering you," volunteered Radia to break the ice. "It's again M'barka. She came to me two days ago and started to cross-examine me." "I shouldn't worry if I were you. She is just curious, you know." Radia said. "No, this is something different. She wants to know why it's taking me so long to beget a son. As if it's my fault. Only God gives and God takes, I told her."
Hnia had been married only two years, but the whole village was spreading all sorts of rumour about her. Once Radia heard Fatna at the day-market telling the public crier's wife, Zohra, "You know the latest? Hnia is as barren as a rock." To which the crier's wife responded "No wonder, her older sisters were also barren. It must be in the family's genes.'' Radia knew Hnia was under pressure because if the son didn't materialise she would be held responsible. It was all the times woman's fault; no one would dare question a man's virility or doubt the potentiality of his sperm. Radia had no words to console her. It was useless to feed her on false hopes. What use were words to a woman whose days as wife were counted. Out of solidarity, Radia said "Everything will be all right. With God's help, you'll get pregnant. But You have to visit Moulay Brahim's shrine and make a solemn promise to sacrifice a ram or sheep if this happens." For a second, Hnia's face lit up like a Christmas tree before her jowl dropped in dismay. ''But how can I travel to Marrakech when I have never left the village?" "You'll find a way out, I'm sure," Radia tried to be reassuring.
Hnia's pilgrim to Moulay Brahim's shrine was the talk of the village for the next few days. So when she came back from the holy visit, She was assailed by a host of women who wanted to know what she did at the shrine. Hnia suddenly found herself the centre of attraction and prolonged the suspense. After all, it wasn't within every body's means and reach to travel 100 kilometres on donkey's back or mule's. And more importantly it wasn't every day her advice and expertise were sought by curious and haughty women who didn't in the past deign speak to her at marriage gatherings and other social events. So Hnia took her time to relate her odyssey to the shrine. "After two days of travelling, the back hurts and your legs become stiff," began Hnia ''but then for the sake of children, I would go even to Holy Mecca. We bore the road's discomforts until we could ride no more so we stopped at a relative's house for refreshments and to allow donkeys and mules rest. Our relative was happy to see us after so much absence and insisted on our spending the night with them. But we refused. We were drawn by an irresistible urge to get to the shrine as soon as possible…" "I know the feeling,'' interrupted Khadija "Once you decide to visit his shrine, his holiness draws you like a magnet draws a nail. I remember " ''We haven't come to hear your story," intervened Yamna who found a secret pleasure to contradict every statement Khadija made. The two women's animosity was proverbial and the village people had problems quieting them once they were involved in an argument. ''you call your trip to Sidi Zouin a pilgrimage. He is after all just a disciple of Moulay Brahim and his miracles pale before the wonders of Moulay Brahim." Yamna glared at Khadija and was about to open her mouth hadn't Hnia intervened to put an end to the argument. Hnia had sensed that her importance as narrator was gradually being eroded and wanted to re-establish her authority. "If you interrupt me one more time again, I won't tell you about what happened at the shrine." Immediately voices rose to silence Yamna and Khadija. A death-like silence followed. The whole audience were spellbound, their eyes riveted on Hnia's mouth. Satisfied with the turn events took, Hnia cleared her throat and resumed the story in her deep-resonant voice. ''After we left my relative's house, we rode on for half a day until we reached the mountains. Then began a hair-raising journey through razor-like turns and break-neck bends. I was reciting Sourat Albaqara while M'barka sought refuge in her rosary. I could only see her lips moving, but heard no words. Maybe she was promising the Saint a black ram if he secured our safety. The man who held the mules was placid, his face didn't register the slightest motion. He must have travelled more dangerous roads. He hadn't spoken a word all the way since we started the journey. His task wasn't to keep us company, but to ward off real or imaginary dangers, and for that reason he was as silent as a corpse."
"Finally without any warning, the mountain suddenly receded, revealing a prairie with a shallow river. We heaved a sigh of relief at so narrow an escape and dismounted the mules to stretch our legs. There were tents facing the river and a market day was in progress. Our male companion announced a little break to drink and eat a bit. Now the holy saint shrine was not far, and oddly enough we felt his overwhelming present in the Souk, the tents, and the river. In fact his premises started at the river where we had to undergo a cleansing ritual before entering the Saint's shrine. We mounted a few steps that led to a spring. On the way we bought 'henna' and a few herbs that we needed for the washing ceremony. When we reached the spring we found an old woman with wrinkled face and callous hands presiding over the ceremony. The spring was half full of women who were half naked. More specifically, they were ordered to get rid of their underwear and were placed within the woman's reach.. The latter started pouring water over their heads and bodies. The water was very cold because it came from the melting snow upstream and descended all the way to the tiny spring. I followed suit and complied with the woman's orders without hesitation. I was shivering and shaking though it was May, but I was willing to walk on burning coal for the sake of children. When it was over I was energetically rubbed with a towel until dry and returned to M'barka who was taking everything in with the placidity of a red Indian. It was only when we mounted the mules again in the direction of the shrine that I dared ask her the question that was uppermost on her mind. 'Why do women have to leave their slips, mother?' I asked apprehensively. ' So that they can get rid of charms used against them by envious women,' came her curt answer and then resumed her solemn demeanour."
"An hour later the Saint's white washed dome rose in the distance majestically. At its sight, our male companion exclaimed 'May your holiness guard us against the whims of this life.' To which M'barka answered 'Amen!' "
"Gathered around the shrine were women of different ages. They were offering their services which ranged from a room to let for the night, to henna for the hands and legs. Shopkeepers hailed visitors to buy candles to be offered to the Saint. Later the candles were resold by the up-keepers of the shrine to the same shopkeepers at lower prices. Apparently a thriving business was going on around the dome."
"Before entering the shrine, I bought a half dozen candles and took off my slippers. It was a sacrilege to go inside the shrine with shoes on. Inside the rectangular room, a large wooden coffin which allegedly contained the Saint's bones and remains lay in the centre. It occupied almost the whole room. It was draped with a green and white cover with gold seams running all the length of the coffin. Some women were kneeling closer to the coffin; others were burying their heads under the silk covers and muttering a few indistinct formulas; a few were sitting on mats absorbed in deep thoughts. There was also a box on the right side as one entered the room, next to which sat an old man, probably in his sixties. His beard was as white as snow. He held in his hand an impressive rosary whose beads he passed through his fingers as he recited Coranic verses. Before leaving the saint's precincts, the supplicant had to drop some coins in the box to win the Saint's favours and accelerate the process of healing, marriage or whatever the reason behind the visit."
"I sat cross-legged and prayed in silence. Then I asked the Saint to give me male children. If my wish were satisfied I promised to slaughter a sheep to honour his memory. When I finished, I dropped a few coins in the box and heard the holy man thank me. Then I left the shrine with M'barka. We spent a few days in a room we had rented and paid daily visits to the Saint, imploring his help and intervention. After the seventh day, we headed home full of high hopes and great expectations."
When Hnia finished her tale, the visitors exchanged knowing glances which implied fascination with her eventful story and unshaken belief in the Saint's miraculous powers. Before they took leave of the one day heroine, they were given dates, henna and talisman Hnia had brought with her from the visit. Some of the women kissed the talisman with veneration while others wrapped it in white cloth as if it were gold and thanked her for thinking about them and wished her plenty of children.
Interest in Hnia's holy pilgrimage began to wan with the passing of time, as people became absorbed once more in their harsh living preoccupations. But when Hnia failed to beget a child, tongues were beginning to weave webs of tales about her sterility. Not for a second did the women put into question the holy man's powers. It was handy to blame the woman. Some said she was frigid; others advanced the hypothesis that she didn't follow the ritual meticulously. In any case, shortly after these rumours, the village woke up one day to discover that Hnia was a persona non-grata in her husband's house. Apparently under the insistence of his mother and family, the husband repudiated his wife and decided to take another woman. It was a simple as that.
During the next few months Radia would lie wide-awake at night. She couldn't get over Hnia's plight. Although divorce was a common practice, it was hard for Radia to accept as rational the explanations women advanced to account for Hnia's sterility. Somewhere there was a crack in their line of reasoning, but it was difficult for her to find it. Did the Saint fail her because the coins she placed in the box weren't substantial? Or did she do or say something that infuriated the Saint and antagonised him, wondered Radia. Maybe her anxiety was not solely due to what had befallen her friend. Then it dawned on her: She was anxious because she feared her husband would act likewise if it turned out she was barren. When she realised this, Radia sought help from her mother whose visit tended to get rarer these days.
On the appropriate occasion, Radia brought up the subject. "Mother, there's something that's bothering me," began Radia tentatively. "Have you quarrelled with your husband? I've warned you before," vociferated her mother. "No. This is not the case.'' "Then what is it? Is it your mother-in- law?'' Now a note of alarm was unmistakable in her voice. "To tell you God's truth, she's partially responsible." "Now stop speaking in riddles, and be plain,'' warned her mother." "All right! It's got to do with children. I'm afraid my husband may send me away if I can't bear him children.'' " Has he mentioned this or done anything that implied it? Wanted to know the mother. "No. It's not my husband who's bothering me, but his mother. For the last few days she's been insinuating things. She told me of Itou who married only last year and had already begotten twins. I feel she's implying it's my fault." Zahia scratched her forehead, her brows knit in deep thoughts, and began cross-examining her daughter. "Is Rahhal a man?" " What do you mean? Feigned Radia. "You know, there's some men who can't sleep without doing you know what. I mean some men are sex starved and would want to do it over and over again in the same night. So what about your husband?" Radia felt uncomfortable discussing her private life, even with her mother, but had to give an answer because she needed her help. So she volunteered "We do it every other day." The mother thought about this for a second, then said "If you want children, you have to be more aggressive than that." She wasn't apparently impressed with Rahhal's sexual performance so she added "There are certain days in the month that are more propitious for pregnancy than others, especially when the moon is a perfect ball. There's another thing you have to know: You need to feed him appropriately to stimulate his sexual appetite." Before the mother left her daughter, she had told her of special recipes and asked her to look after her appearance. How did the mother acquire all this knowledge when she was illiterate was a mystery to Radia. Maybe begetting too many children and listening to old women's private conversations was the answer, thought Radia.
When her mother had left, Radia tried to assess her sex life. Ever since the ill-famed night when she lost her virginity, sex was a routine difficult to skip, extend or end. Like the water she had to fetch every other day or the wood she gathered every Sunday. It was part of the tasks she had to fulfil and carry out as best as she could. Sex was a private affair left to the secrecy and intimacy of husband and wife. It was relatively easy to handle because it was private and so Radia was safe from curious people's sarcasm and judgement. The one who would decide over criteria of performance was her husband, and she trusted he would not be shouting what happened between them to his cousins or friends.
Sex was predictable and dreadfully monotonous. Every night he blew out the candle, and without preliminaries or even taking off his clothes, he would order her to ''open up your legs," and then mount her. She would close her eyes and lay quiet waiting for his passion to burn itself out. When he finished, she would rise from bed and wipe his sperm with a rag which she always hid beneath the pillow. She felt ashamed of herself every time she had to retrieve the rag, wash it and then chuck it under the pillow for a later use. Rahhal was unaware of the little ritual going on every night because he had developed his own routine: When sex was over, he would not utter a word, but turn over and soon fall asleep. It seemed to Radia that marital life, in the final analysis, boiled down to frustration and unfulfilment
Sex maybe important, but conception was all that mattered for the moment. So Radia set herself to the task with the devotion of a disciple. First she concocted dinner recipes made of various plants and herbs which she mixed with other aphrodisiacs and served to her husband on a daily basis. Then she started to pay attention to her appearance. After finishing the house chores, she would untie her long black hair that she used to cover with a scarf, smooth it with oil and let it fall. It was said that "A woman's half beauty was her hair'' and Radia's hair was as black as coal and reached her hips. Then she would apply a coat of rouge to her cheeks and lips and mascara to her eyes. To top it she would use a whiff of local perfume. A pleasant smell of orange and lavender would then permeate the room. Whether Rahhal had noticed the changes that had occurred in his wife he didn't say a word about it, but the alacrity with which he responded to her advances testified to a sudden surge in his libido. The encounters now had became a nightly reality and it was Radia who now opened her legs and closed them without his peremptory command. She tried to respond to his ardour, but found herself tied up in birth anxiety. While he drilled inside, panted, sweated, she was thinking of the son that would change her life and tame her enemies into silence if not respect. She would wake up from her revelries only after he collapsed, having burnt himself out in the effort to climax.
The first signs of physical discomfort began to show two months later. After a normal work day, Radia became unusually tired and worn out like a patient gradually waking up from a prolonged coma. At first she couldn't explain this state of lethargy, but when she began to throw up and to crave food other than the usual bread and tea which formed the core of her diet, she was alarmed. Again she sought her mother's advice and got it. She was relieved to hear she was pregnant and her joy soared to unprecedented heights. Radia quickly broke the happy news to her husband who was as happy as a lark. The same news brought only a curt comment from the M'barka. ''I hope it's going to be a healthy boy."
Despite her pregnancy, no treatment of favour was allotted Radia. She still had to get up with the rooster, fetch wood from the nearby forest, bring water every other day from the well, and bake bread for the whole clan. Albeit the fatigue, the occasional nagging of M'barka, the envy and jealousy she could read on her sisters-in-law's faces, she showed no despondency, anger or resignation. She bore her misfortune with fortitude. She knew what motivated her husband's brothers' wives' barely disguised hatred. If she bore a male child, their share of the Sheikh's property would diminish considerably. People were all the time dreaming up a relative's death or trying to precipitate it. Greed ruled the world, thought Radia with bitterness.
But for the time being, she had her self to look after and her baby to protect from the evil eye. Now she felt the baby grow inside her and give her from time to time little pricks. Strange sensations overwhelmed her, as the little helpless creature tried to communicate with her in its particular way.
At other times Radia had mixed feelings. She wasn't sure how to handle the boy or girl when s/he came into the world. Would s/he be normal, healthy, intelligent or a monster? But these thoughts assailed her only at night when sleep deserted her eyes. By morning she was her old self again and ready for her share of chores..
The first pangs of birth hit her when she least expected them. She was in the process of kneading the dough, when a series of searing contractions seized her. She sat motionless, gasping for breath. Then the contractions disappeared. After a few minutes, she resumed her kneading and decided to ask Halima about it when she was finished. In the afternoon, she went to her sister-in-law and told her what had happened. Halima smiled knowingly and said, "That's the beginning, honey. The baby is trying to tell you he wants to come into the world." "It wasn't nice of him to put it so forcefully," said Radia. "A first birth is always difficult; labour may drag on for 2 or 3 days before delivery. All you need to do is relax and pray."
The next day, a piercing cry woke the occupants of the house. Radia was writhing with pain and shouting at the top of her voice. Her husband sent for his mother who sent for the midwife. Meanwhile Radia was pacing the room and trying not to weep. When the mid-wife arrived, she immediately asserted her authority. She ordered water to be heated and asked for clean bed-sheets. She was a woman past her prime, and had delivered more births than anyone in the village could remember. She was proud to ascertain she had lost only two babies in her entire career. There was something professional in her manner, but also motherly. As she inspected Radia's pot-bellied stomach and examined her inflated feet. She nodded her head and asked for tea. Apparently a long vigil awaited them. As the first rays of the sun hit the room, Radia was eagle-spread on the wooden bed, while two women stood at her head. She began to scream when the contractions came at regular intervals, each time, more painful than the previous one. A woman wiped the sweat from Radia's face and brows while the mid-wife asked Radia to "push, push, push." When Radia thought that she was finally going to die, the baby came rushing out, as if he himself had enough of waiting. A woman let out a piercing cry to announce the birth of the baby. The women surrounded Radia to inquire about her condition, but the midwife asked them to leave her in peace.
The next day, Radia woke up exhausted and distraught. She had a strange dream. She dreamed she was caught in a blaze. She was surrounded by fires and was trying to run, but couldn't. Finally some anonymous hand pulled her through. Radia found herself still shaking from the previous night's nightmare. She looked around and saw her mother standing at her side. "Thank God! you' re still alive. You were raving, tossing and turning in your sleep." Radia's face registered simultaneously shock and disbelief. "What's wrong with me, mother! I can't feel my feet," complained Radia in a tired voice.
"When a woman is about to give birth, she has one foot in this world and the other one in the other world," answered the mother. Suddenly the word, birth, triggered in Radia's mind a weird reaction. She began to shout, "Where's the baby? I want my baby, give me my baby." Her mother tried to calm her down while another woman brought a little baby wrapped up in a wool blanket and handed it to Radia. "We didn't give you the baby right away because you fainted," assured the mother. Radia didn't hear her mother's words because her eyes were glued on the little thing that was staring back at her. So inexpressive was the look on its face that she wondered whether it wasn't dead. The little hands were helplessly dangling and the whole body was so frail she felt it could break if she mishandled it. It was only when she was reassured that the baby was normal and healthy that she asked about his sex. Her mother faltered for a second, but M'barka who had been silent throughout the dialogue, deliberately spit out the words. "It's a girl!'' There was a note of triumph in her tone, almost of disguised pleasure. Radia' s reaction was prompt ''Take her away! I don't want to see her." She was almost hysterical now, shaking her head from left to right and banging it on the bed panel. Was she overreacting to the birth of a girl? Or was it the reaction of her mother's shameful look and mother-in-law's triumphant tone that made her renounce, almost hate the baby that had just been born? The baby was snatched from her hands and taken to a safer place. It took Radia some time to calm down and stop shouting.
During the following days, Radia lapsed into melancholy, refused to eat or to breastfeed the baby. This sudden change from euphoria to gloom was accentuated by Rahhal's reaction when he discovered that Radia had given birth to a girl. "His face darkened and he left the room immediately without even taking the baby in his arms," had reported Radia's mother.
A substitute mother was momentarily found to feed the baby who was now crying most of the time and making everybody tense. Rahhal was spending most of his time outside and coming back late at night. He didn't speak to Radia, but would gobble down the meagre meal Radia's mother had prepared and go out again. Radia's plight lasted a month, and her eyes were red from too much crying. Her loneliness had become unbearable and suffocating. One morning, however, she woke up from her state of lethargy and asked that the baby be brought to her. Was it a mother's instinct? Or a feeling of guilt at having abandoned her baby that pushed her to change her mind? When she held her in her arms, she felt something stir inside.
The baby was serene. She grabbed her hand and looked at her so tenderly that Radia's heart melted and she began to cry. Rahhal seemed resigned and brow-beaten. Motherhood was no excuse for laziness; it was more of a duty than a privilege. M'barka was soon reminding Radia that she had a duty to the family into which she had married and therefore was asked to move you-know-what, as soon as possible.
As the years went by, the family grew from a mere baby girl to 4 kids. To get over the disappointment of Zaida's birth, Radia became a baby producing machine. The births came at the rate of one every two years, but they were most of the time a matter of frustration, gloom and tension when a boy refused to honour Rahhal's household. Radia was so desperate to beget a boy that she did everything heard, recommended or whispered about by older women. The fantastic remedies ranged from swallowing a live snake, to eating a hedgehog. The poor thing had his legs tied up with a string before being served. in couscous. It was such a grotesque sight to behold. After many failed attempts and the realisation that the magical potions and herbal recipes were ineffective, she considered hysterectomy. Finally when everybody thought it was hopeless, Radia gave birth to twins who were named Hassan and Hussein after the prophet's daughter's sons. Rahhal was in 7th heaven. To express his happiness he gave a huge banquet that lasted seven days and got the whole village talking for days on end.
Radia was proud of her daughter, Zaida who despite the odds of her birth, the hardly disguised loathing of her father and the animosity of her in-laws survived to prove them all wrong. Ever since her birth through childhood she had watched her grow independent, resourceful and strong in her emotions. She was not afraid to engage in a fight to assert her authority or right a wrong. She didn't mince her words when somebody attempted to pull up her leg. Secretly Radia encouraged her to mix with boys and girls. Was she trying to make up for her own wretched childhood? But it was a fact that boys as well as girls feared both her acerbic remarks and her fist. "Mama, look what Zaida did to me." Radia would inspect her son's blue eye and say "Bad Zaida! I'll give her a sound beating when she returns." And when Zaida came home, wearing a defiant look on her face, her lips tight shut, Radia's resolution would melt and so her tone become conciliatory. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself? How many times do I have to tell you to avoid fights? How many brothers do you have? "Mama, it was his fault. He wanted to steal the bird I had caught." "So you did go tree climbing against my warning," Radia would remind her. "It was his idea," retorted Zaida. And so it went on like this every time someone got a blue eye or injured a leg or lost a tooth. It was hopeless to bring her to reason or to soothe her. Even the village women started taunting Radia. "If you don't bend her will now, she won't find a husband," someone would say. "Who would want a tomboy for a wife," would add a neighbour. If marriage meant cooking, washing, opening your legs now and then and sustaining injustice without responding, it was only common sense to abstain.
Zaida was the oldest of her siblings and the one closest to her mother. Their lives had been closely linked, from the start. Radia remembered what both had endured and felt tears rise in her eyes at the recollection. The rejection of Zaida by her in-laws and even her father was compounded by Radia's initial loathing of her own daughter. But then she had been under so much pressure that she could not have acted differently without further antagonising her husband and his powerful relatives. She too was a victim of social conditioning that valued males over females.
Radia was more fond of Zaida than of her sister Rabia. She Knew it was not fair to discriminate against one's own daughter, but she could not help it. Maybe she felt resentful of Rabia because she realised she was a copy of herself. And as such she would be always walking in someone's shoes, a shadowy figure. Most probably she would marry someone who would make her life hellish and she would put up with it for the sake of her own kids. Rabia would always remind Radia of her failed life and for that reason she felt taciturn in her daughter's presence.
Zaida was different and special. She would accept nothing short of equality in a relationship. Radia wanted the best for her daughter, but her desire to improve her situation was thwarted by the patriarchal stand that reduced woman's place to home. Although Zaida didn't go beyond first grade, she was very bright and handy with her hands. She sewed, did needle work and helped her mother with household chores.
Despite the physical affinities, the twins had different characters. Hassan who was born half an hour before his brother was a tender, sensitive and easy going boy. Even today as a tall, haggard boy he had remained aloof, withdrawn. He seemed to delight only in his music tapes and books. He was scribbling things in his notebook which Zaida described as poems. He had the mantle of an artist but Radia wasn't happy with the prospect of her son becoming an artist, for there was no future for artists in their country. She would want her son to become a soldier or a policeman because people in her village respected the representatives of law and authority. But Hassan had developed an allergy to power and those who represent it.
Hussein on the contrary was a healthy, strong boy, much bigger than his 12 years. He was Epicurean at heart; he liked to eat, play and enjoy the best things in life. He also liked to play practical jokes on almost everyone. He wasn't given to reading like his older brother, but preferred outdoors. He enjoyed swimming in the river, catching scorpion with a rubber elastic or riding a horse to the day- market with his father. But his erratic lifestyle was often cause for concern for his mother. On a number of occasions, neighbours would rush to Rahhal's house to complain about Hussein's indecent behaviour. "Your son has once again pestered our daughter, R'kia," complained Itou. "You should marry him or chain him in a niche like a dog." Radia would try to comfort the whining woman and promise to put her son at his place. And when the son came back from his loitering, she would pinch his ears and lash out a him "I'm going to find you a wife if you don't stop pestering all the village's girls." "I don't want to marry. I have better things to do." It was always the same response she got till she was fed up with the whole matter and dropped it from her mind. What was the use of begetting boys who were now almost adults, when one wanted to become an artist and the other was good only at running after girls, wondered Radia.
As the children grew older, they became less wise. Radia was having serious difficulties tempering their exuberance and withstanding at the same time the onslaught of a distracted and unpredictable husband. Each day the gap grew and communication reduced to onomatopoeic utterances. They had become strangers under the same roof. What kept people together when they had become strangers was unfathomable. Radia stayed for lack of a better alternative while Rahal probably lacked the nerve and guts to desert his wife and kids and start life elsewhere.
Childhood love
The best things in life are for free, so my Arabic primary school teacher used to say. She was slim, attractive and every 10-year old pupil’s dream of a first love. I gobbled down the story, infatuated as I was. She invaded my nocturnal dreams through most of primary school grades. When I grew older I fell out of love with her and with her wisdom. I learned to my dismay and at times at great emotional cost that life was anything except gratis.
Her bit about being poor and happy struck a sensitive cord. I didn’t come from a well-to-do-family. Dad was a joiner; mum was a housekeeper. We (one younger brother and an older sister) lived in a two bedroom brick and mortar house. Most of the meals we took consisted of boiled potatoes, mashed potatoes or fried potatoes. That didn’t seem to bother us a lot as long as we didn’t go hungry. So when Dad occasionally brought home croissants still hot from the Spanish owned bakery in town, our delight was something to behold.
We were taught at an early age that sharing was to be treasured so we ended up bartering one another’s clothes. At times I had to wear to school an oversize shirt or a tattered coat. Back from school I would often find mum double bent, sewing old socks or patching up a worn-out coat. ‘What’s that you’re sewing? Coat of many colours? Mum would pause for a while and give me her stern look. ‘Waste not…’ ‘want not,’ I would hurriedly add. I had heard the phrase so many times that I derived some secret pleasure from taunting her. Then a long homily would follow about how my Dad toiled day and night so that we wouldn’t go hungry. 9 out of 10 times she had the last word. I would finish by giving up. There was no point in rubbing in the point. I would ask for something to eat instead. ‘There are some mashed potatoes on the table,’ she would retort
At high school, group pressure heightened my awareness of social differences. The rich kids came to class dressed to the nines. They would talk about Nike shoes and Levi’s and perfumes that cost more than what Dad would make in a life time. Imagine my dismay and embarrassment as I tucked in a worn-out shirt or trod in my grotesque boots. Soon everybody was cracking jokes about my Chaplin’s shoes. I tried to make light of their malicious remarks but I would go red every time one of those infamous class bullies make me take off my shoes and race with them all over the playground as if they were a war trophy. It’s then that I realised that poverty could be a serious handicap especially if it was endemic and not the fruit of overnight bankruptcy.
Girls had no sympathy for someone totally broke. They used to swarm like a beehive around Oussama, the richest kid in class. His satchel was always full of treats and glossy objects that made everyone else envious. I discovered that money was a wild card in the continual war we waged to win the favours of a sweetheart. Handsomeness was not to be played down but in my case it was of little use. That was my first discovery and to my dismay the harsh truth that money could buy almost everything.
I wholeheartedly believed in Amina’s other altruistic platitude _ be good regardless. I suffered was my conviction that a friend in need was a friend indeed. I took in mother’s wisecracking by dint of repetition I saw love inseparable To give regardless of rewards . When I was 8 I read everything I could lay hands on from comics, to classics I grew up with Wuthering heights pride and prejudice brothers Karamazov and all in Arabic in cheap editions Wathcing Indian movies once a week at the local theatre enhanced and inflamed my imagination platomic love, fidelity death revenge all the stock themes of Indian movies engendered a sensitive character. Yet I was betrayed by my best friend in the most baseless way. We had lived in the same neighbourhood like our parents and their grandparents we ate at each other’s home potatoes meal and drank innumerable cups of mint tea , we even slept at others other’s home and shred tee shirt jeans We were legendary for our love the paragons of true friends. One day Leila, a beautiful girl, barely older than me moved in the neighbourhood. From the time I set eyes on her my heart skipped a beat. I would spend when I didn’t have class hours waitinfg outside her house to glimpse her When she walked to the local shop I would follow her at considerable distance. Whether she had noticed my stratagem she didn’t show it. Soon I was dreaming of her at home in school and my day dreaming earned the sarcasm of my class mates and the can e from the teacher. Then One day I dared. She was carrying a bag of flour on her head almost bent under its weight. I offered to carry it for her. That was the beginning of a real infatuation, a love story that changed my whole life. Was so engrossed in my love affair that I forgot about my close bosom friend and since news travels fast in a small town, Ahmed was impatient to find out about it. I told him the truth. A week later Leila failed to come to our usual hideout I waited for hours but in vain. I also realised she was trying to avoid me in the street and was evasive when asked about her alibis I grew thinner ,Ilost my appetite I grew a thin beard on an elongated face Iwas the picture of the jilted lover A caric taure of my old self. I starterd asking questions about the meaning of love the concept o fidelity and the sort How could I win back Leila’s love and favors became my number 1 obsession. I was doing poorly in school and getting low grades and more caning but didn’t seem to worry beyond
To be continued
The best things in life are for free, so my Arabic primary school teacher used to say. She was slim, attractive and every 10-year old pupil’s dream of a first love. I gobbled down the story, infatuated as I was. She invaded my nocturnal dreams through most of primary school grades. When I grew older I fell out of love with her and with her wisdom. I learned to my dismay and at times at great emotional cost that life was anything except gratis.
Her bit about being poor and happy struck a sensitive cord. I didn’t come from a well-to-do-family. Dad was a joiner; mum was a housekeeper. We (one younger brother and an older sister) lived in a two bedroom brick and mortar house. Most of the meals we took consisted of boiled potatoes, mashed potatoes or fried potatoes. That didn’t seem to bother us a lot as long as we didn’t go hungry. So when Dad occasionally brought home croissants still hot from the Spanish owned bakery in town, our delight was something to behold.
We were taught at an early age that sharing was to be treasured so we ended up bartering one another’s clothes. At times I had to wear to school an oversize shirt or a tattered coat. Back from school I would often find mum double bent, sewing old socks or patching up a worn-out coat. ‘What’s that you’re sewing? Coat of many colours? Mum would pause for a while and give me her stern look. ‘Waste not…’ ‘want not,’ I would hurriedly add. I had heard the phrase so many times that I derived some secret pleasure from taunting her. Then a long homily would follow about how my Dad toiled day and night so that we wouldn’t go hungry. 9 out of 10 times she had the last word. I would finish by giving up. There was no point in rubbing in the point. I would ask for something to eat instead. ‘There are some mashed potatoes on the table,’ she would retort
At high school, group pressure heightened my awareness of social differences. The rich kids came to class dressed to the nines. They would talk about Nike shoes and Levi’s and perfumes that cost more than what Dad would make in a life time. Imagine my dismay and embarrassment as I tucked in a worn-out shirt or trod in my grotesque boots. Soon everybody was cracking jokes about my Chaplin’s shoes. I tried to make light of their malicious remarks but I would go red every time one of those infamous class bullies make me take off my shoes and race with them all over the playground as if they were a war trophy. It’s then that I realised that poverty could be a serious handicap especially if it was endemic and not the fruit of overnight bankruptcy.
Girls had no sympathy for someone totally broke. They used to swarm like a beehive around Oussama, the richest kid in class. His satchel was always full of treats and glossy objects that made everyone else envious. I discovered that money was a wild card in the continual war we waged to win the favours of a sweetheart. Handsomeness was not to be played down but in my case it was of little use. That was my first discovery and to my dismay the harsh truth that money could buy almost everything.
I wholeheartedly believed in Amina’s other altruistic platitude _ be good regardless. I suffered was my conviction that a friend in need was a friend indeed. I took in mother’s wisecracking by dint of repetition I saw love inseparable To give regardless of rewards . When I was 8 I read everything I could lay hands on from comics, to classics I grew up with Wuthering heights pride and prejudice brothers Karamazov and all in Arabic in cheap editions Wathcing Indian movies once a week at the local theatre enhanced and inflamed my imagination platomic love, fidelity death revenge all the stock themes of Indian movies engendered a sensitive character. Yet I was betrayed by my best friend in the most baseless way. We had lived in the same neighbourhood like our parents and their grandparents we ate at each other’s home potatoes meal and drank innumerable cups of mint tea , we even slept at others other’s home and shred tee shirt jeans We were legendary for our love the paragons of true friends. One day Leila, a beautiful girl, barely older than me moved in the neighbourhood. From the time I set eyes on her my heart skipped a beat. I would spend when I didn’t have class hours waitinfg outside her house to glimpse her When she walked to the local shop I would follow her at considerable distance. Whether she had noticed my stratagem she didn’t show it. Soon I was dreaming of her at home in school and my day dreaming earned the sarcasm of my class mates and the can e from the teacher. Then One day I dared. She was carrying a bag of flour on her head almost bent under its weight. I offered to carry it for her. That was the beginning of a real infatuation, a love story that changed my whole life. Was so engrossed in my love affair that I forgot about my close bosom friend and since news travels fast in a small town, Ahmed was impatient to find out about it. I told him the truth. A week later Leila failed to come to our usual hideout I waited for hours but in vain. I also realised she was trying to avoid me in the street and was evasive when asked about her alibis I grew thinner ,Ilost my appetite I grew a thin beard on an elongated face Iwas the picture of the jilted lover A caric taure of my old self. I starterd asking questions about the meaning of love the concept o fidelity and the sort How could I win back Leila’s love and favors became my number 1 obsession. I was doing poorly in school and getting low grades and more caning but didn’t seem to worry beyond
To be continued
