Written in the Stars (9 page)

T
he engine cranks until the bus reaches a loud, self-doubting hum before it jerks forward. Aside from one elderly toothless lady several rows ahead of me, I am the only woman here. Old men and young boys cram together in every spot but leave the space next to me unoccupied. They seem exhausted. Their eyes are closed, their bodies still.

The bus trembles as it turns onto another country road, sunrise slowly filtering into the world. With each creak and groan, my anxiety dissipates. I don’t know where I’m going or what I will do when I arrive, but the nightmare is behind me.

My mother is probably waking up right now. When will she knock on my bedroom door? When will she ask me to hurry up so we can go shopping? When will she realize I am gone?
No.
I push these thoughts from my mind. It does no good to question the past. I have to keep moving forward now.

* * *

I don’t know how I fall asleep. Maybe the weeks of sleeplessness finally catch up to me, along with the hypnotic rumbling of the bus, but I wake with a start. My forehead slams into the seat in front of me. Other passengers stumble forward, toppling on one another. I’m watching people rearrange themselves and their belongings when suddenly I hear a loud commotion outside. The driver exits the bus. The loud, angry voices grow louder with each passing second. Just then, the men at the front of the bus step aside as someone pushes through. I look at their anxious expressions. Have we been hijacked?
They can take my money
—but I stiffen at the thought of my cell phone.
They can’t have that.

All thoughts vanish when I see the man walking down the bus. He parts the crowd with his girth. His face is beet red, his jaw hard. His breathing is ragged and hoarse.

It’s my chacha.

No,
I think, my eyes struggling to register him.
It can’t be him. Not here, not now.

He scans each row.
I’m not here,
I pray.
Leave this veiled woman alone
. He slows as he passes my seat. I close my eyes. In that moment, I want nothing more than for death to swoop in with its claws and wrench me away.

But death, in the form I desire—my soul painlessly exiting my body—does not come.

Since forming the plan, I’ve imagined my capture on many sleepless nights. Men with flashlights chasing me down dark streets. Sleepy faces staring at me in shock as I unlocked the front door of my home in a dark burka. Neighbors sitting on a porch stoop, calling my name in the dead of night. Yet never had I imagined that they would find me here, on the bus to safety. This was how I escaped.

Yet as unceremoniously as a goat that wandered too close to the street before being fully branded, I’m yanked from my seat, dragged down the aisle, down the rough metal steps.

Instincts spring to life. I kick, twist my wrists to pry myself away from him. I bite his arm. He does not let go.

The bus driver and passengers watch my uncle shove me into the car.

“
Help me!
” I scream out before he clamps his hand tightly on my mouth. I watch the bus shrink into nothingness in the distance.

I
remember the first time I stepped into this bedroom. Selma’s room felt so large. Two twin beds on opposite ends of the room with handwoven quilts of different textures and colors. Beige paint cracking along the edges of the ceiling. I remember seeing the iron bars on the windows for the first time. They made me feel safe, secure from the outside world. Now, as I press my back against the cold wall, this room feels small and narrow, closing in on me. The bars’ purpose is finally clear.

My father stands before me, his face a deep shade of red. Sweat trickles down his brow. He walks toward me with deliberate steps. I stare at him. This man seems a stranger. I look into his eyes. Has he forgotten the bicycle lessons in the park near our house? The bandage he applied when I fell and scraped my knee? How could this person who raised me with so much love be the person standing before me?

“Where is it?”

He is mere inches from me. I can feel his anger, a solid, tangible thing; it reverberates through the room. It makes me tremble.

“I want the phone. Give it to me.”

I keep my face blank, thankful I hid it quickly once they shoved me into this room.

“There is no phone.”

“No phone?” He stares at me. “Is this who you’ve become? You who can look me in the eyes and lie to me like this? This isn’t my daughter. My daughter would never so willfully go against everything we ever taught her. I raised you better than this.”

“Don’t do this,” I plead. “Please, don’t do this to me.”

“To you? Look what you are doing to us!” His voice catches. “For generations my family lived in this village. People looked up to us. They came to us to resolve their disputes. And now? The respect we built up over the generations, you are trying to ruin all of it!”

I know I will forget many details of this moment, but I will never forget the slap across my face. Or my chacha storming inside, my hands upon the cold concrete floor, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I know I will remember the overturned mattresses, the clothing flung from the closet, and the moment my father’s hand grazes the cushion by the bed, pulling out the purse—and my phone. I will never forget the way he walked out of the room, locking the door behind him and throwing away the key to the life I could have had.

S
he’s not eating.”

“Make her eat, then.”

“She’s asking for Selma or Imran. She said she will eat if she can see one of them.”

“Who is she to make demands of us? It’s this indulgent attitude her parents tolerated that has led to the problem we have today.”

“It won’t hurt for them to come in for just a few minutes.”

“We’re not playing this game. Go in there and make her eat, or I will.”

The door opens, casting a pale glow into the dimly lit room.

“Naila.” My phupo walks up to me and kneels beside me. “I brought your favorite food—look, kebobs, rice. And here, I brought you some Coke.”

I don’t move from my spot in the corner of the room; my arms hug my knees. I can’t remember how many days it’s been, and I am beyond the point of caring. My stomach grumbles, but I feel no hunger.
Where’s Selma?
I want to ask
. What did they do to her? Where is she?
But I know it does no good to ask. I screamed her name through the door the first few days until my voice went hoarse. No one responded. Sometimes, like now, I wonder if Selma ever really existed. Perhaps she is just a figment of my imagination.

“Beta,” Phupo pleads, “you need to eat. You can’t survive like this.” With a fork, she cuts off a piece of kebob and dangles it by my mouth. I turn my head away.

“What’s happening is wrong.” She leans closer to me. “I don’t blame you for running away, but
nothing can be done now. Don’t make this harder for yourself. Please, eat something. Don’t do this to yourself.”

I continue staring down at the gray concrete floor.

Phupo slides the plate toward me and gently cups my face. “I’m leaving the plate here. Please eat it tonight. Starving yourself isn’t going to change anything.”

* * *

The next morning, Phupo sighs when she sees the untouched, cold food.

I hear voices outside the door.

“She didn’t eat anything. This is the fifth day. She’s wasting away.”

“I told you it does no good to sweet-talk her. I told you what we should have done from the start. Now I’m in charge.”

I don’t flinch when my chacha walks into the room. He slams a tray of food on the ground. He takes in my unkempt hair, my tearstained face, and my lips pressed together in silent defiance.

A loud click. “I don’t have the time nor the patience to deal with you,” he says. “My brother made the mistake of getting greedy and running off to America without any concern for the family he left behind. You can’t help what you are. But you brought my daughter into this, and that I will never forgive.” He breaks off a piece of kebob from the tray. “Either you will eat, or I will make you eat. The choice is yours.”

I keep my mouth in a thin line, tightly closed.

“Then you have made your decision.” He leans toward me and roughly pries my lips open, shoving the food into my mouth. I gag as he picks up a glass of water and pours the drink down my throat. I cough at the strange, bitter aftertaste, but he doesn’t stop until the glass is empty.

I bend over, heaving; water trickles down my chin. Almost instantly, I feel hazy. The drink. He’s drugging me, I realize. I try to get up, but a rush of heaviness settles over me.

“Keep resisting, and I will come back here every single time.” A dullness settles over me. I watch him walk away. The door slams with finality behind him.

W
here am I going?” I ask my mother and Khala Simki. This is my first time outside the bedroom since I tried to leave. The world seems orange through the gauzy veil draped over my head. They grip me by my shoulders, steadying my feet, leading me toward the cushioned center of the room.

“Just rest,” Khala Simki says.

I fold my hands, suppressing a yawn. I sit down cross-legged and lean against a soft cushion. It feels like a cloud. I sleep all the time lately. Even when I’m awake, my brain feels clouded. I try fighting it, but I can’t. Life is a dull echo while I sit in a vacuum of darkness.

I look up when I hear the rhythmic sound of drums, and a group of women singing songs. Young girls I recognize from the village are dancing to recorded music on the stereo in bright red, green, and yellow dresses on the open space just feet from where I sit.

A tiny woman in a mustard yellow outfit sits in front of me. I know her. I’ve seen her on walks through the village toting a toddler with a shock of brown hair. She grips my hand firmly in hers, stretching the palm taut, a cone of henna in the other hand. I watch her paint my hand with the focus and precision of a surgeon. I try to meet her gaze, but she seems oblivious to the fact that the hand she’s painting is connected to me.

The swirls, cool to my skin, spiral into flowers, peacocks, and stars traveling the length of my arm, and then I watch as she begins on my feet. My mother and I painted our hands with henna just like this growing up. We dipped toothpicks in bowls of cool brown henna and traced spiraling clouds and tulips across our palms. None of our designs were ever quite as beautiful as these. I want to ask what the occasion is tonight, a holiday, a wedding, but
the fogginess is too heavy.

And who is to say this isn’t a dream? I rest against the cushions.

“It’s okay,” my chachi whispers. “You can go to sleep if you want.”

I startle and look over at her. “I’m tired,” I tell her. “I’m so tired.”

“Here, drink this.” She hands me a glass of water. “Then just lean back and rest. You don’t have to do anything but sit and look pretty.”

“Pretty?” I ask, but my aunt simply pats my shoulder. There’s so much more I want to ask her, but my words are too heavy. Everything is too heavy. I lean back against the cushions and sleep.

* * *

The next day, a thicker veil covers my face. Everything is blurred and hazy. I am in my parents’ bedroom, seated on the edge of their bed. People surround me from all sides, hands holding me firmly in their grip.

My clothes are suffocating me. Maroon velvet with gold and green embroidery. The heavy fabric clings to my body, but the veil, with its thick handwork, hangs heavier still upon my head. I tried to stop them from placing it on me, but deliberate hands gripped me on each side as they pinned the veil in place, thrust a gold necklace with rubies around my neck, and put on large gold earrings that weigh down my ears like anchors.

Khala Simki’s high-pitched laugh floats through the air. Her bangles clink like wind chimes and then, the melodic voice of the imam whose voice echoes daily from the local minaret sounds so clear, it’s as if he’s right here in this room. I try to focus on his words, but they feel slippery. I can’t grasp them, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t formulate words of my own.

“Naila Rehman,” he says, “do you accept?”

Accept? Accept what?

He lets out a ragged cough. “Naila Rehman, do you accept this marriage?”

Marriage?

My mouth goes dry. I struggle against the foggy sensation enveloping me that’s prevented me from understanding any of this. Until now.

This is a wedding.

This is my wedding.

A table is placed in front of me with a long white paper and blue pen.

“Do you accept?” he asks again.

“
No,” I tell him. Warm tears trail down my face. “I don’t accept this. No.”

No one replies.

Did I say these words out loud? Or am I simply imagining all of this? Maybe this is just a bad dream I can’t escape.

I try standing up, but rough hands shove me back down. Thick hands push the pen toward me. I flatten my palm, but someone pushes my hands together, forcing my fingers around the pen. Gripped by the elbow, pushed down at the shoulders, I watch my hand make motions, incoherent ink writing out the semblance of a name. My name.

The pen falls from my hands. I hear loud voices and laughter.

The hands that held me loosen their grip; my arms fall limp to my sides.

I look up. My stomach lurches. The room seems to tilt. A crowd of people swirl in and out of my line of vision. I see my chachi in pink. Khala Simki with a strained smile on her powder-white face.

Where’s Selma?

Where’s Imran?

People brush past me, embracing one another. Nobody is looking at me. Nobody seems to notice I am even here.

On the bed, my hands shake.
What just happened? What have they done to me?