The Shaytan Bride: A Bangladeshi Canadian Memoir of Desire and Faith by Sumaiya Matin

Author:Sumaiya Matin [Matin, Sumaiya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs, Asian & Asian American, women, Ethnic & Regional / Asian & Asian American, Cultural; Ethnic & Regional, BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Women, BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Cultural
ISBN: 9781459747692
Google: _4UNEAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Dundurn
Published: 2021-09-07T23:55:26.390262+00:00

Atyanta Cene Aparicita Byakti / Familiar Stranger

There was a caramel-skinned lizard with bulging black eyes watching me record what I was observing as I sat on the cement bathroom floor, the door locked and my back against it. My journal was in my lap with its tattered edges, a slender silver pen between my thumb and index finger.

I was startled by a series of knocks — anxious and demanding — so I hid my journal under my fuchsia orna. When I opened the door, Boro Mama stood there with a smirk on his face.

“Please get dressed,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

“Where? Where are we going?” In my mind I was shouting as I asked the question, but in reality, I was merely whispering. Only a few days before I last texted Bhav, some cousins shared rumblings that my family would consider potentially moving back to Dhaka if I remained so rebellious. Only a few days after I last texted Bhav, I learned that Boro Mama was considering leaving me in a village if I didn’t acquiesce sooner rather than later.

“I’m taking you to meet someone,” Boro Mama revealed.

“Who?” I asked.

“A relative,” Boro Mama said, clearing his throat.

I imagined natural light wrapping my body in a sweet caress. My spine — twisted from sitting for prolonged periods of time in the storage closet, hunched over my knees and frequently immobile — unwinding itself at the call of the sun. The sun’s rays tracing my face. I thought also about the forced smiles and pleasantries, which required willpower that I was still trying to reserve for my escape.

So I asked, “Can I just stay here? I’m not well.”

“Get dressed,” Boro Mama replied, ignoring my question. “Bilkis, can you find her a proper outfit?”

Perhaps I could have protested further, but I didn’t.

Boro Mama had multiple cars, but the one I remember taking was a black Jeep. As I stepped outside of the house the flying dust grains in the air hit my face, and it was a sort of reminder that I was indeed still alive. The light rays I craved smothered me all at once. I squinted at the surrounding buildings, which seemed to twirl, and I peeked through the front gate to see the hot-pink roofs of tent stalls, where snacks and cigarettes were being sold. I battled to keep my body upright and not fall unconscious. I didn’t even notice the driver, who appeared at my side and then helped me up into the Jeep. The front gates opened, and we were on our way. I looked out the Jeep’s windows, desperate to climb out. Not to run away exactly, for there was nowhere to run. To go for a walk. On my own. Alone. Free.

The restaurant we arrived at was an upgraded Pizza Pizza. At the entrance were big glass doors. Looking through them, I saw women with kohl-lined eyes, peach cheeks, bright lipstick. I touched my own face; I had forgotten the feeling of painting my lips or nails, tracing a wing at the end of my eyelids.

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