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Parakrousis*
*The striking of a slightly
wrong note in an otherwise tuneful harmony. � Ancient Greek
Shabnam Nadiya
Published
on
August 25, 2009
She stood calmly as
she watched the child burn. The lighter fluid she had poured onto the girl�s
dress had caught fire with the swiftness and ease of a kingfisher plucking a
fish from water in mid-flight. It delighted her � the sudden and brilliant
violence with which the fire blossomed on the girl�s body, like some unholy
flower with an indelicate scent. The sharply distinct and ugly odor of
charred flesh attacked her nostrils. She breathed in deeply, inhaling the
stench. The child was screaming of course. And writhing around on the floor,
trying to put out the flames eating into her flesh. She was calling for her
ma, her grandma, anyone to help her. But she had been doused well with the
fluid and the synthetic material of the child�s bright red dress, instead of
burning, simply melted into a sickly sludge, sizzling and sticking to her
skin. The look of utter disbelief the child had thrown at her when she had
lighted the match and dropped it in her lap was satisfying in itself. The
child was making less and less noise now, indistinguishable moans were all.
The melody of pure pain. She wondered whether the flames would manage to eat
through her skull and jaws, and how long it would take for her tongue and
vocal chords to burn. That would shut her up for good. The Hindus burned
their dead, didn�t they, and she had heard that it was very difficult to
actually burn the skull or the belly button. They had to crack open the
skull to make it burn properly. But why the bellybutton, she wondered? What
was so special about that? She watched with interest as the smooth taut skin
on the child�s torso split, oozing a pinkish juice. There were faint
crackles as the girl�s hair erupted, crowning her briefly with incandescent
orange petals. She watched for several moments more, then walked away.
Someone else would do the cleaning up today.
�Mami,� called the girl in the bright red dress, �why did you make
noodles again today? I had noodles for tea yesterday AND the day before. I
hate having the same thing everyday, I hate it!� She smiled and tried to
calm her sister-in-law�s child in a soft voice, �I�m sorry, I just didn�t
have time today to make something different.�
�You mean, this is yesterday�s?� The child�s whine turned into a screech,
pitched exactly to reach the ears of her grandmother in the next room. �You
know my mommy never lets me eat old food, it�s bad for my health!�
With perfect timing the old woman emerged. �What is it? Drink up your
milk dear, like a good girl��
�She gave me yesterday�s noodles�� the child screamed.
�No, no,� the old woman shook her head with a cross look and turned to
her daughter-in-law. �She has a delicate stomach. We must be careful with
her. What have you given her?�
�Ma,� she tried to explain, �You know we are having to prepare for
Shab-e-Barat next week. Both the maid and I have been busy all day. We have
to make all that halwa, you know. I simply didn�t have time to make
something new today, and I cooked a lot of noodles on purpose yesterday, so
it could be eaten today as well.�
�So why don�t you give her some halwa that you�ve made?�
�Yes yes yes yes yes I want halwa�, screeched the spoilt little brat.
�Well, I haven�t finished making the halwa yet, it took the whole day
just to boil and make a paste of the chick peas. Actually we still haven�t
finished grinding it. I just came out to serve her milk and snacks.�
�I want halwa,� wailed the girl.
�Well!� sniffed her mother-in-law, �This is your house now, since you�ve
married my son, but in my time things were run differently in this
household.� The old women twisted her lips in disdain.
Oh how she hated that! �Ma, she tried explaining again, Tomorrow I�ll��
�Do whatever you want, girl, none of this is my concern. After all, how
can I expect too much from you? It might have been different if she had been
the child of your own sister. And I understand, you perhaps resent the fact
that her mother has a big job, while you couldn�t even finish your studies.
Just don�t take it out on the child, not while I�m alive.� The old woman
went off towards the kitchen, leaving the child with, �If your aunt feels
like it, then you�ll get some halwa�maybe tomorrow��
The child looked at her with such unrelenting venom that she cringed
inside like a whipped dog. The girl was only seven years old. How could a
seven-year-old look at someone like that? What knowledge did the child have
that she lacked?
The old woman lay helpless in the bed, unable to move because of her bad
back and also because of the strips of cloth binding her to the bedposts.
The old woman watched the steady certain movements of her daughter-in-law
with such abject fear in her eyes that it made up for everything �
everything.
She picked up the skewer she had brought from the kitchen when she had
gone for the mustard oil to massage on her mother-in-law�s back. She placed
it delicately against the dry withered skin of the old woman, rolling it a
little, letting the coldness of the iron make itself known to her senses.
The old woman was praying in a low voice, tears running down her face as
if the floodgates somewhere had burst open in high monsoon. But they weren�t
tears of apology or understanding, were they? Or remorse? They were fear,
and loathing and who knows what else. But that would do, that was good
enough for today.
She removed the skewer and looked at it for a moment, admiring how black
it had turned with age and the blood and the juice of the mounds and mounds
of kebabs that had been impaled on it. She placed it between the middle of
her index and thumb and thrust it in and out, up and down like an instrument
of forbidden pleasure, feeling the cool smoothness, the sheen and the
inflexibility of the metal against her own flesh, marveling at how certain
it was in its purpose, how utterly and unchangeably beautiful. The chanting
rhythm of Arabic verses rang in her ears, broken now and then by desperate
sobs; the beauty and holiness of the sounds moving her to tears. The old
woman never asked for mercy not once; was it sheer stubbornness and pride or
was it that her mother-in-law had finally come to see the black iron she had
had in her soul all along?
She poured a little mustard oil in her palm, and closed her palm around
the thin rod, massaging the oil onto the skewer. Shiny and darkly bright it
became in the blink of an eye. She leaned over her mother-in-law, waiting
for her to break, certain in the knowledge that she would. The old woman was
sniveling now, the snot running out of the raggedy nostrils infuriated her,
disgusted her. She placed the tip of the skewer on the old bag�s right
eyelid, gently forcing it to close. The pathetic body lying helpless in the
bed was trembling now. She waited a moment, unable to decide whether the
left eye or the right one, left brain or right? Should she just run it
straight in or should she try and cut the eyelid off first? Maybe shave off
her eyebrow? She laughed in a low voice imagining how the old woman would
look with one eyebrow gone. Slowly she increased the pressure on the skewer
enjoying the slight resistance from the flesh underneath.
The muted praying of the old woman became high pitched with the constant
plea of Allah Oh Allah breaking up the rhythm. Fear had such a readily
identifiable sound. Then she looked at her with her other eye and said in a
ragged voice, �No�.please��
She smiled and with a sudden deft thrust, plunged the skewer into the
eyeball, going straight to the unresisting brain so hard and so fast that
the iron tip banged off against the back of the skull. Crimson warm liquid
spurted out (as did a single very brief terrified scream) and hit her
straight in her face as she hovered over the old woman trying to determine
to the second the exact moment that the spark left the eyes. She breathed
silently, tasting the lingering saltiness of blood that had splattered on
her tongue.
�A little lower,� instructed the old woman. She dripped some more mustard
oil on her palms and moved her hands to her mother-in-law�s lower back. Ma
sighed in pleasure. �You have magic hands, Daughter,� she blessed her
daughter-in-law. You are the only one who can make my back better when it is
this bad.
The dutiful daughter-in-law smiled at the compliment. Her arms were
aching, the massage had been going on for over an hour now. �You�re feeling
a little better, Ma? She couldn�t help asking.
�Yes, dear, I know you must be tired, but could you continue just a while
longer? Please?�
�Of course, Ma,� she smiled again. �As long as you want. It hasn�t been
that long.�
The old woman smiled at her, �Ah, you have young arms, young hands, time
is not the same for you and me.�
She smiled again, �Ma, why don�t you try and get some rest? I won�t leave
until you�re fast asleep, you know.�
Her mother-in-law smiled at the gentle scolding and the indulgent smile
of the daughter- in-law. She lay back with a long sigh and closed her eyes
like an obedient little girl, submitting herself to the loving caresses.
The bruise on her sister-in-law�s forehead changed colour as she watched
� turning a deep red bordering almost on purple. The young woman lay on the
floor just as she had fallen when hit on the head with the heavy bluntness
of the solid stone sheel.
She knelt down and eased out her right arm from the uncomfortable
position under the body. No reason to make the young woman uncomfortable
yet, was there? She sat down beside her sister-in- law, with her head on her
haunches, and gently tucked the few untidy wisps of hair behind her ear. She
touched the bruised skin on her temple. The blood coagulating just beneath
the surface of the skin felt hot and smooth somehow, skin like white satin.
Her sister-in-law had a beautiful complexion, flawless skin. She gently
stroked her forehead, luxuriating in the creamy softness of her skin. She
increased the pressure of her fingers on the bruise, watching to see whether
the renewed pain woke her up. But she just lay there as lifeless as a body
that was already dead. She moved her finger slightly left and pressed deep
and hard to see whether she could raise a welt on the skin without the aid
of any other implement. She felt the resistance of the skull behind the skin
with slick satisfaction. She picked up the heavy sheel again. The stone
implement still retained the comfortable scent of the spices it had ground
throughout its lifetime. Pretty soon that aroma would be overtaken by the
warm stench of blood and other matter. Anything to do with flesh always had
such a distinctive, unmistakable odour.
The sharp crack of the sheel hitting her sister-in-law�s skull jolted
her. She held the sheel in both hands and stared at the head as it lay
before her. A soft, drawn-out moan escaped her slightly parted lips as if in
lieu of the sounds the face on the floor should be making. She raised her
arms high above her head and brought the sheel determinedly down again with
a vicious sound to connect with the forehead. This time she managed to bash
in the skull. Chips of white bone flew out like fragile shrapnel stinging
her cheeks and clinging to her hair. The blood that oozed out was darker
than she�d imagined and somehow thicker. The viscous membrane with its
delicate network of darker veins that covered the brain was visible through
the opening she had made. The brain had been pushed back a bit with the
force of the blow but it appeared that the sac was unbroken. She settled
herself down on the floor beside her sister-in-law�s prone body and
cautiously poked a finger in the brain. To her astonishment, the hitherto
inert body shuddered once accompanied by a low moan. She felt a cold anger
pervade her senses, clouding her mind and even her eyes. She thrust her
finger into the squishiness of the brain, tearing through the fragile
membrane as if raping the virgin skull of the woman who had almost been her
friend. The body quivered briefly. She picked up the now reddened sheel and
brought it down bluntly upon the cracked skull. Pieces of pinkish white
brain matter were stuck to it when she lifted it again. She stood up and
almost slipped on the clotted blood on the floor. There was something white
lodged in the congealing blood. Bone or brain? She poked at the white mass
with her big toe, and it smeared onto the floor. Okay, it had been brain.
She had hated this set of sheel-pata ever since she had come to this
house. Too heavy, her arms always ached as she spent hours hunched over it,
moving her waist and her ass back and forth rhythmically as she ground the
coarse spices into paste.
�Bhabi,� her sister-in-law said in an exasperated tone, �Why don�t you
please tell the maid to do that? Why do we keep her if we have to do all the
work?�
She sat back, all sweaty and aching and flexed the muscles of her arms.
�Because, madam, the maid never does it properly, she always leaves it
coarse and I like my spices to be perfect.�
Her sister-in-law laughed. �Well, madam, if you insist on being such a
perfectionist�Really, Bhabi, can anyone tell the difference once the cooking
is done?�
�Yes, dear, they can, she began to laugh. Which is why there are such
varied reactions to your cooking and mine.�
Her sister-in- law burst out laughing.
It was a family joke; her sister-in-law was a terrible cook. The sounds
of their mingled laughter cut through the air sharp and clear like diamonds.
Her husband had come home late today. He walked into the bedroom tired,
sweaty and irritable.
�You look tired,� she said.
He snapped, �What do you expect? Sorry I can�t look like Prince Charming
after a ten-hour work day.�
She smiled at him and said soothingly, �That�s not what I meant at all. I
just thought you might feel fresh after a hot bath. Want me to heat up some
water?�
He looked at her with scrunched up brows then his eyes cleared. He smiled
at her and said, �Why are you so nice to me when I behave so badly with
you?�
She smiled back. �Because I�m such a good wife. She laughed. Now do you
want some hot water or not?�
He shook his head. �Maybe later.� He took his shirt off and sat down on
the bed with his lungi in hand, �I just want to take a short nap. Call me
when dinner is ready?�
She watched his fleshy thighs become exposed as he took off his formal
trousers and changed into his lungi. He had gained some weight in the past
few months, developing a small paunch instead of the tight, flat stomach he
used to have. She looked at the sparse hair on his belly that gave his skin
a slightly rougher texture, remembering the feel of it under her palm when
she caressed him. He scratched his belly lazily and yawned. She felt the
tension in her fingertips, the fragility of her mind delicately poised in
flight, moving with ease towards the familiar tautness like a tightly coiled
spring; it would be difficult to disembowel him�slicing through the skin,
dermis, epidermis, the layers of fat, flesh, the network of veins,
viscera�blood sluicing off and pooling by her feet on the clean shiny
floor...
Shabnam Nadiya writes from Bangladesh
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