Her Duties

Prompt: The List  |  Genre: Drama   |  Word count: 1500 words

Caution: Contains scenes of graphic violence and coarse language

You are lying on your bed and staring at the ceiling. You had hoped to stare aimlessly, trying to take your mind off what’s happening to you. But then you spot a cobweb in the corner. And suddenly you hear your mother, sounding like an ancient figurehead, almost as if it isn’t her but a thousand score ancestors speaking through her, “A woman must keep her house and herself clean and beautiful, as a bride decked up for her husband.”

It always happens, this intrusion of strange voices. They come in at the most inopportune moments. As if they are a list of songs on an old record playing on an even older gramophone, that never works when it should, and always when it shouldn’t.

Like right now... when you were trying so hard to force everything out of your consciousness. But you no longer can and it all promptly comes rushing back in... images... sounds... smells... sensations...

His face, tight and sweaty, bobbing up and down....

 Your rhythmic grunts...

 The pungent smell of sweat mixed with blood...

Welts and cuts growing numb with pain...

“Am I clean and beautiful enough, mother?”, you ask the voice in your head. There is no reply. Of course.

The next morning while it’s still dark, the record plays again, like clockwork, “A woman must wake up before the sun and perform the duties of her household.”

You turn in your sleep. That brings in a fresh wave of pain. But you don’t make a sound; if he wakes, the pain will get worse. His thick, hairy hand is placed carelessly over you. You feel bile rising up your throat. You gingerly pick his hand and take it off. You tumble out of bed and feel your aching body revolt. But the record is now stuck and keeps repeating its message. It won’t stop until you start. So, you start.

You walk past the mirror but you don’t stop to look. You know you won’t like what you see. You turn on the shower. The cold torrent burns and bites. But you welcome this pain. It doesn’t feel dirty. It almost feels like the healing sting of medicine. But you know that’s an illusion; there is no healing because he will keep the wounds fresh.

“It is a woman’s duty to always please her husband.”

“Even when it hurts?” you ask again.

“A woman must bear suffering with grace and a smile.”

You sob silently. Your tears, hot against your cheeks, is slowly washed away.

Later in the day, as you are scrubbing your blood off the bedspread, he stands at the bathroom door and silently looks at you. You look up at him. He walks back to the bedroom. You leave the linen, wash yourself, and follow.

* * *

“A woman must know how to cook; the way to a husband’s heart is through his stomach.”

He throws away the plate you set before him. He wanted to eat Chinese food, not Indian. You were supposed to know it even if he didn’t tell you. That’s what a good wife does; fulfil her husband’s unsaid wishes. He storms into the kitchen and throws down the food.  He comes back out, pulls you by the hair and pushes your face to the floor.

“Lick off the food, like the bitch that you are!” he screams.

You try to turn your face away. But he pushes harder until your face is drowned in the food. The food enters your nostrils. You start to choke and cough. Hard. He looks at you doubtfully, then with fear. He lets go of your head. You get up and desperately try to sneeze out the food. Your nostrils burn from the effort and the spices. He is angry because he had to stop. So he storms out of the house, locking you in as usual.

Sometimes, it means that he will come back and hurt you more than he had. But sometimes, just sometimes, he would stay out the whole night. He would, of course, eat someplace outside. He never goes hungry; that’s something meant only for you. He might also go to other women. You hope he does. Because then he might not return for days. And you can breathe a little... maybe even sing an old tune you know.

You no longer care if he comes back sick. He has already given you AIDS. Neither do you try to escape. Because you remember your last attempt... so clearly, as if it had happened yesterday. The first time you had tried was just three weeks after the wedding. You had managed to reach the crossroads at the end of your street before he caught you. You weren’t able to walk for a week after that. Yet, you had tried again. And again. And again. Until you had finally reached your home. Only to be sent back again.

“A married woman leaves her husband’s home under no circumstance except death,” your mother had said.

“I’m already dead, amma!” you had cried.

“Then go to the underworld where you belong! Do not stand here any longer and bring more disgrace to your family!!” your mother had replied, as she slammed the door on your face.

You had every intention to follow her advice. But he found you again. You never tried to leave after that.

Until the day you realised you had another life within you and he was going to take it away because it wasn’t a son.

You had whispered to the attending nurse what he intended to do; you had asked her to help you escape and save your child. She was kind, that woman. But she was afraid. She had said she will let the doctor know and the doctor in turn will help you.

But the doctor had returned with him. She was his aunt.

“It is the woman’s duty to bear a son and take her husband’s family name forward.”

You have lost five of them so far. You hoped one day you would be able to give him a son. Maybe then he might be good to you. Maybe.

* * *

You can no longer remember your life before you were married to him. Somehow, it feels too distant... like it belongs to one of your past lives.

But sometimes, those memories come to you all of a sudden. Like an uninvited guest. Or a fart while you are speaking to someone you want to impress.

Like the boy who sat behind you in class. He used to stare at you when he thought you weren’t looking. He used to help you with homework. Sometimes, you used to ask his help even when you knew the answers.

You had bent down to pick up a pencil. He was helping you look for it. When suddenly it happened... you farted. Right on his face. To his credit, his expression didn’t alter. But then again, he sat with the stony look for the next fifteen minutes. Maybe it was the gas; maybe it could paralyze people temporarily.

You laugh at the memory. A small, silent thing. But it feels nice. It used to be simple... love, that is. You don’t know what it means, anymore.

* * *

“Why do you want to go to college?”, your father had once asked.

“I want to take up literature, baba.”

“What will you do learning that?”

“I want to become a college professor,” you had said beaming.

“Our women don’t work. It would serve you well to learn everything you can from your mother.”

“But times are changing baba!” you had protested.

“Not in our house!” he had raised his voice, which meant the discussion was over.

“A woman should not work to earn. A woman with money is like loose cannon; she starts to think she is better than her husband.”

* * *

He returns home after three days. You don’t ask him anything.

“A man can do as he wills. Never question him. And as a woman, you must always do as he says.”

You follow him to the bedroom. You strip for him, as usual. He sits on the bed, and looks at you. There is a strange gleam in his eyes that you had never seen before. It seems like a wild, rabid animal but you can’t be sure because he prefers that you keep your eyes lowered. He makes a sound. That’s your cue. You bring the whip to him. He lashes you. You bleed but the look in his eyes doesn’t change. Instead, it grows more feverish. He goes out. And comes back with a bottle. He pushes you onto the bed, spreads your legs and inserts it.

The world blanks out. Someone is screaming. You open your eyes. Through a red haze, you see him in the dim light of the room. His eyes are glazed over with pleasure.

“You have done well”, you say to yourself.