Parakrousis by Shabnam Nadiya

Parakrousis*

*The striking of a slightly wrong note in an otherwise tuneful harmony. ï¿½ 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 girlï¿½s dress had caught fire with the swiftness and ease of a kingfisher plucking a fish from water in mid-flight. It delighted her ï¿½ the sudden and brilliant violence with which the fire blossomed on the girlï¿½s 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 childï¿½s 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, didnï¿½t 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 childï¿½s torso split, oozing a pinkish juice. There were faint crackles as the girlï¿½s 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.
   ï¿½Mami,ï¿½ called the girl in the bright red dress, ï¿½why 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!ï¿½ She smiled and tried to calm her sister-in-lawï¿½s child in a soft voice, ï¿½Iï¿½m sorry, I just didnï¿½t have time today to make something different.ï¿½
   ï¿½You mean, this is yesterdayï¿½s?ï¿½ The childï¿½s whine turned into a screech, pitched exactly to reach the ears of her grandmother in the next room. ï¿½You know my mommy never lets me eat old food, itï¿½s bad for my health!ï¿½
   With perfect timing the old woman emerged. ï¿½What is it? Drink up your milk dear, like a good girlï¿½ï¿½
   ï¿½She gave me yesterdayï¿½s noodlesï¿½ï¿½ the child screamed.
   ï¿½No, no,ï¿½ the old woman shook her head with a cross look and turned to her daughter-in-law. ï¿½She has a delicate stomach. We must be careful with her. What have you given her?ï¿½
   ï¿½Ma,ï¿½ she tried to explain, ï¿½You 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 didnï¿½t 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.ï¿½
   ï¿½So why donï¿½t you give her some halwa that youï¿½ve made?ï¿½
   ï¿½Yes yes yes yes yes I want halwaï¿½, screeched the spoilt little brat.
   ï¿½Well, I havenï¿½t finished making the halwa yet, it took the whole day just to boil and make a paste of the chick peas. Actually we still havenï¿½t finished grinding it. I just came out to serve her milk and snacks.ï¿½
   ï¿½I want halwa,ï¿½ wailed the girl.
   ï¿½Well!ï¿½ sniffed her mother-in-law, ï¿½This is your house now, since youï¿½ve married my son, but in my time things were run differently in this household.ï¿½ The old women twisted her lips in disdain.
   Oh how she hated that! ï¿½Ma, she tried explaining again, Tomorrow Iï¿½llï¿½ï¿½
   ï¿½Do 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 couldnï¿½t even finish your studies. Just donï¿½t take it out on the child, not while Iï¿½m alive.ï¿½ The old woman went off towards the kitchen, leaving the child with, ï¿½If your aunt feels like it, then youï¿½ll get some halwaï¿½maybe tomorrowï¿½ï¿½
   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 ï¿½ 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-lawï¿½s 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 werenï¿½t 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 bagï¿½s 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, ï¿½Noï¿½.pleaseï¿½ï¿½
   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.
   ï¿½A little lower,ï¿½ instructed the old woman. She dripped some more mustard oil on her palms and moved her hands to her mother-in-lawï¿½s lower back. Ma sighed in pleasure. ï¿½You have magic hands, Daughter,ï¿½ 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. ï¿½Youï¿½re feeling a little better, Ma? She couldnï¿½t help asking.
   ï¿½Yes, dear, I know you must be tired, but could you continue just a while longer? Please?ï¿½
   ï¿½Of course, Ma,ï¿½ she smiled again. ï¿½As long as you want. It hasnï¿½t been that long.ï¿½
   The old woman smiled at her, ï¿½Ah, you have young arms, young hands, time is not the same for you and me.ï¿½
   She smiled again, ï¿½Ma, why donï¿½t you try and get some rest? I wonï¿½t leave until youï¿½re fast asleep, you know.ï¿½
   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-lawï¿½s forehead changed colour as she watched ï¿½ 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-lawï¿½s 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 sheï¿½d 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-lawï¿½s 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.
   ï¿½Bhabi,ï¿½ her sister-in-law said in an exasperated tone, ï¿½Why donï¿½t you please tell the maid to do that? Why do we keep her if we have to do all the work?ï¿½
   She sat back, all sweaty and aching and flexed the muscles of her arms. ï¿½Because, madam, the maid never does it properly, she always leaves it coarse and I like my spices to be perfect.ï¿½
   Her sister-in-law laughed. ï¿½Well, madam, if you insist on being such a perfectionistï¿½Really, Bhabi, can anyone tell the difference once the cooking is done?ï¿½
   ï¿½Yes, dear, they can, she began to laugh. Which is why there are such varied reactions to your cooking and mine.ï¿½
   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.
   ï¿½You look tired,ï¿½ she said.
   He snapped, ï¿½What do you expect? Sorry I canï¿½t look like Prince Charming after a ten-hour work day.ï¿½
   She smiled at him and said soothingly, ï¿½Thatï¿½s not what I meant at all. I just thought you might feel fresh after a hot bath. Want me to heat up some water?ï¿½
   He looked at her with scrunched up brows then his eyes cleared. He smiled at her and said, ï¿½Why are you so nice to me when I behave so badly with you?ï¿½
   She smiled back. ï¿½Because Iï¿½m such a good wife. She laughed. Now do you want some hot water or not?ï¿½
   He shook his head. ï¿½Maybe later.ï¿½ He took his shirt off and sat down on the bed with his lungi in hand, ï¿½I just want to take a short nap. Call me when dinner is ready?ï¿½
   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 himï¿½slicing through the skin, dermis, epidermis, the layers of fat, flesh, the network of veins, visceraï¿½blood sluicing off and pooling by her feet on the clean shiny floor...

Shabnam Nadiya writes from Bangladesh