In 1988, on a windy morning in Karachi, my mother is raped by two men on motorcycles, after being kidnapped off her bus-stop. She is barely missed in school. An empty chair stands out in the centre of the classroom, her friends wonder if she's all right.
Far from it.
The motorcyclists are men. But barely.
Friends.
The elder rapist is nineteen years old. His penis is almost six inches long.
The average human penis according to the person on the street, is between five and six inches.
A gaping hole of an average that is.
Not unlike my mother's vagina, as two penises force their way in. One after the other.
My mother is crying throughout intercourse.
Her mind is trying to grasp the reality of the situation, she just wants this to be a nightmare. The hurt and humiliation doesn't let her get very far with this train of thought. She recognises the stench in the warehouse. It's ink. They're in an abandoned printing press. She tries to imagine the press coming alive, anything really to steer her away from that moment. It's her present then. That present moment as opposed to this present moment. Pain anchors her to the moment. That moment. This is how her life is written, it's all in script reaching back to the big bang, running backwards as her parents unorgasm, unarouse, unlove, unmeet and are unborn. As her parents' parents' and their before that, stretching ultimately through human history. Her father will later be unable to cope with the knowledge and blow his brains out with a rusty revolver. Her mother's sisters will think of him, a lesser man. Her mother will almost have me aborted. Grandmother's are lovely aren't they? She was keeping me from birth. All time is one time. So as she struggled with morality, I struggled in the future for my existence simply by living. I've always been fighting it seems. It all begins from birth.
Where do babies come from?
An orifice? A boiling penis that just can't hold it anymore? From love? From a social contract? Where does it all begin?
People are in love with life. They say, that life, truly is beautiful. The miracle of birth, the act of lovemaking, these are the things that make it worthwhile. Being together, being held when nearing and fearing collapse. Bouncing on your mother's knee while drooling, the trickling rain on windows during a blackout. Two hands, separated by a glass. Pressing gently, gently pressing, as hearts go pop. Even the heartbreaking moments make life a lot more livable.
People do love life.
I am trying to find the beauty in the act of lovemaking, in the miracle of birth. Thinking what I'm supposed to think of a little monkey that comes out of me. A monkey with a penis or a monkey with a vagina. Either a monkey who dominates or will be dominated. No third way about it. The act of lovemaking. Twats and Dicks, getting juicer. Otherwise gentlemanly man undressing the bride adorned for him. Little shimmering star, sparkling on the bed, scintillating innocence sitting pretty, a little light that hasn't gone out.
Where is the beauty in a twelve year old girl crying and screaming as two teenagers tear her clothes off? How may I find a miracle in a birth that almost never was? A childhood nightmare that never ended?
Where did I begin? Was my father and his conspirator in arms, calculating? Did they plan ahead? Were they simply finishing up a snack at a cafe at seven fifteen, and the idea pushed it's way through? Or was it a morning hardon he couldn't beat down? Or was mother, so entirely beautiful that they felt they just had to?
My grandfather painted my mother when she was twelve years old. The painting is better than all existing photographs of her. She was painted three weeks before the world fell apart. Before the madness under the carpet snuck out and opened it's mouth. Broke down doors instead of peeping through keyholes. The filth spurted itself into existence, after gestating far longer than it wanted to.
And here I am, in my moment as my husband smiles at me. I wonder what is behind that smile. My husband is not an extraordinary man. And our marriage, is considered an extraordinary act by all knowing parties. You do not simply marry the product of rape, his aunt told him. I'm certain that I love him. I love him because he needs to be loved. And I need to love someone. It helps. And I repeat: My husband is not an extraordinary man. But he is a clever man. And he is, after all, a man. And I know where all this is leading. The cogs in the fate machine turn harder every time something like rape occurs I imagine. The fate machine, is fed a script and we all just turn within it, screaming in friction, silent in lubrication. And I can look within the machine. I have seen this moment, he will smile some more and tell me that he loves me. Then he'll think for a moment, fail to come up with more dialogue as his brown penis throbs under his white clothes. He'll try to be classy about it. He'll hold my hand and kiss it. Then he'll kiss me. His mouth will taste like sour milk. I'll tell him that after two weeks of tolerance. That will result in a fight. But I'm moving too far ahead, far too quickly. Short story long, long story short, he'll take his clothes off. And take mine off without asking me first. Sooner than it should be, he will enter me. But it's almost always to soon isn't it? I think it's a disgusting thing. It's the most badly designed and ugly part of the human body. The female has nothing quite so grossly designed.
As my husband reaches forward, a lens of love masks the predatory hunger that exists behind his eyes. I see him reaching forward one year from now choking me because I cannot hide my indifference at his desire to have sex twice a night. The present and past, the moments that are fleeting are a mirror to the future. And I'm just trying to crack that mirror. Break it open. It does break at the end. I wonder if I ever truly will be free of the machine. Is it fear or cowardice that stops me from hanging myself from the ceiling fan? Or simply the fact that I cannot crack the future? It does not matter. I will try again tomorrow. For now, I think I better look interested before my husband reaches the point where he asks me to be actively involved in his pleasure.
My husband forces his way on me, here in 2005, the moon's pale beams filter through the curtains, and in 1988 the golden light peeks into the dirty windows in the printing press. Mother can see sun hiding and seeking behind her rapist's head. In 1988 my mother cries, "pull it out!" her protest speeds through time into the present moment, and I cry, here in 2005,
"pull it out. please."
"What's the matter darling?"
"Oh it just hurts. It just hurts."
My husband sits there looking frustrated, time's choir fades.
And it hurts. A metaphor of a cow on it's way to the slaughterhouse lurks in my brain. Perhaps the cow knows and it is simply trapped in the fate machine. The cow, like me, imprisoned by a machine operated by tyrants. But whose face lies behind the tyrant? Who makes the machine? Who oils it and ignores it? Who put the insane thought in my husbands brain when he wanted me to marry him?
Memory speaks.
"But well, she may be the product of a rape victim, but can you imagine what girls are like today? It's unbearable. Divorce rates are becoming noticeable, there is a lack of obedience. Women just don't respect their men anymore. I'm sort of glad, Mansur didn't find interest in the girls at his college. What kind of wives will they make? Mansur is the man, and Kiran will remember that. I know it sounds horrible but that's how it's supposed to be."
His fathers nods smugly with his mother.
Memory goes on mute and the present moment speaks.
I speak, "I'm sorry. I'm all right now. It's ok."
I think it but I don't say it. Get it over with. I just want it to be done. Just make it all go away.
And as my husband pushes in, I think of mother. Hoping that there is a heaven. And I wonder, if she's watching from heaven.
I wonder if she's crying. I wonder if she can tell me, I will not be just one of seventy two wives when all this is done. That she hurts as she sees this. Her tears frozen behind her eyes as no one ever cries in heaven.
"God, I'm in heaven." my husband whispers.
Heaven, nobody cries in heaven.
Heaven. The beginning, middle and. end of forever.
And in 1988, my mother's screaming and crying is gagged, as the older rapist pushes his weight on her, grabbing her hips. His penis throbs and erupts.
In 2005, my husband's bloodied dick quivers, spurting liquid miracles.
And suddenly, the seventeen years vanish, as my husband and father stare at the red, feel nausea rise up and quickly contort their faces.
Prima Notta lasts about three minutes.
My husband gasps for air, and looks into my eyes.
"I Love You."
"I Love You too."
And he lies there, tugging at my breast, gently wrestling with sleep.
I feel something in my eye, and a tear escapes the duct. I look down at my stomach and hallucinate in the dark. The miseries and sufferings of the future, the sheer pain of birthing, our purpose, just comes rushing in. My eyes dart to the mirror, only a few feet away from the bed, more tears escape, and I just see a naked girl. It could be anyone. But it's just a girl. And in this country, this world, I'm just living out of my purpose. The lines between rape and sex, are just so blurry here. And even when the blood from either side just splashes across the border walls, unable to bypass, it no longer matters. I stare at the indistinct figure at the mirror, crying without a noise, without pain. It's all right though, I am allowed to cry. My husband doesn't wake up. I cry some more knowing that there are no cracks in the mirror, and there never will be. There are no chains because there already bars. The walls of this prison are thick enough to keep any scream, any protest a secret. And the room feels humid, the fan creaks hanging like some splayed angel from the ceiling. The door is locked. Outside this prison is another, much larger, with invisible bars. And outside that prison, is another prison, a prison of fabric, a uniform designed by god. Everything but the eyes locked away. As much of a prison as a social asylum. Refugees by gender. I trace my fingers over my stomach, hoping the umbilical cord strangles this forced conception. Cock or cunt.
In 1989, the doctor sympathises with my father.
In 2005, I stare at my reflection.
In 1988, one rapist points to my mother.
"It's a girl."
by Zeeshan Mahmud |
