Number Nine

She stood there rooted to the ground. Almost at that spot where it sloped down to the base of the fragrant jasmine bush. Being here was still an adjustment for her. Living in a house that compared to their apartment in Midwestern America was a mansion. There, she struggled every once in a while to break free. Here, she stood outside next to the countless petite white double-petaled flowers facing the was it cream? vanilla? peach? exterior of the house, and it was all still a dream. This place of her birth was still a dream.

She wasn’t born in this particular house but nearly seven years ago, when part of this college was also where a hospital continued its humble existence, she was born in one of its delivery rooms. The hospital was no longer here, but if she wobbled on the long driveway to the exit from the house, she could see the house she spent the first three months of her life in across the street. Number eight.

The apartment where she shared a large bed with her mother and her little brother, which was for the most part her entire world was so small compared to the multilevel house, and the lawns that surrounded it. The lawns she was a part of as her little body leaned against the jasmine bush. She shielded her eyes from the bright sun as she took in her surroundings, the lush green carpet that had not turned to brown from the heat, the trees that formed just as much of a border as the shrubbery behind them, the various red, pink, orange flowers all which she could not name including the jasmine, the ‘motiya’ which would be part of the centerpiece at the dining table.

Just as it did when they lived in America, Mari’s physical condition prevented her from enjoying the outside world in Lahore for quite some time. And now that she was out here, she wished that she could be more a part of this. Where were her brothers and sister? None of them were to be left alone in the lawns. Why had she not moved when her sister told her to follow them? She wanted to enjoy what encircled her just a little longer. She did not feel afraid.

A man Mari had never seen before walked down the dusty driveway towards her. He was thin, wearing an off-white shirt with brown slacks. He had seen her and was moving towards her. Her feet remained fastened to the ground. Where were her brothers and sister? Would Papa and Ammi drive up to the house any minute now?

“Hello.” He smiled. A thin line of hair the width of his upper lip decorated the spot right above his mouth. She thought his hair had too much Brylcreem, or the oil she had seen her daadiji put in her hair.

“Hello.” She smiled shyly. Her little hand clutched at some jasmine stems.

“You didn’t see a red ball land here did you?” He spoke in English, his accent not like hers or her siblings. Mari shook her head. He crouched down in front of her.

“What’s your name?” He asked softly.

“Maryam.” Her eyes darted to the last spot she had seen her siblings.

“Maryam, I’m a friend of your father’s. Are your parents home?”

She shook her head. This “friend” did not give her a very good feeling.

“You look very nice.” Mari was dressed in a white blouse, and printed slacks with a reddish brown background with flowers and shapes she wasn’t quite familiar with. Mari’s confusion grew, and it wasn’t just about her surroundings or the unfamiliar designs on her pants.

No man she had met who was her father’s friend had ever touched the belt of her pants, had put his fingers inside and touched her skin. He kept smiling at her, and his voice was quiet as he said, “These are very nice pants, Maryam.”

Mari did not know what to do. She saw his fingers move towards the button that fastened her pants. Her eyes focused on his brown hands. She had wandered around the streets of the little Minnesotan town where they lived for six years, the few times she slipped out to explore, but in all that time, no stranger had ever come up to her and touched her, as this man did. It was so unreal to her, as if she wasn’t really there and was watching this all unfold. Her anxiety turned to fear, and yet she did not know what he would do if she was to call out to her siblings. She stood perfectly still, trying not to rip apart the skinny green branches of the jasmine bush, sickened by the greasiness of his hair. He kept smiling at her and started to pull down the bronze-colored zipper.

“Mari! What are you doing?” Her sister Mina’s voice was stern. Mari had felt helpless until that moment. The man who called himself her father’s friend hurriedly walked away, as her siblings stared at her. Mina rushed to her six-year old sister and quickly secured her pants. She took her hand firmly in hers, almost painfully, and led her away.

“I’m not going to tell anyone about this and neither are the rest of you.” She was angry. Why must Mari always get herself in trouble? Mari felt a heaviness in her chest as she listened to Mina’s admonition. Anyone, but especially Papa. Mina and her brothers understood only too well. They would not be the ones to relate to anyone what happened this Sunday afternoon.

*~*~*~*

School was just a short walk away. Mari was finishing up her breakfast which consisted of eggs and toast and a glass of milk when she heard a booming voice shout out, ‘Maryam! Mina!’

Maryam walked towards her parents’ bedroom. Mina was already there. Their father’s frightening figure towered over them, his face was turnip red. Their mother looked uneasily at him and her daughters.

“Who was that man you were talking to yesterday?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Then why were you talking to him?” His was still very controlled.

“He, he said he was a friend. . .” She stammered but stopped as he advanced towards her.

Victor Singh turned to his eldest daughter, “Where were you.”

“Jibreel, Michael and I were in the back.” She could not lie to him. He knew.

“Why wasn’t Mari with you?”

Before Mina could answer, she cried out in pain from the slap she received on her face. Mari trembled, knowing she was next. Their mother moved towards them, “Victor, they didn’t do anything wrong.” She spoke pleadingly.

“You stay out of this Marta!” He yanked little Mari away.

Mari had already begun sobbing. She screamed as his big red hand struck her again, “Why were you alone?” and again, “Why did you talk to a stranger?” and again.

“I don’t know.” Mari coughed out through her tears. Her mother rushed to get her away, but Victor pushed her with such force she almost fell to the ground.

“You don’t know?”. . . He grabbed her and flung her a few feet away from him. . .He did the same with Mina. . .Both girls were sobbing hysterically. . .Every time Marta would scream at him to stop, and try to cover them, he would growl and order her to keep away, and if she didn’t move, he would push her. . .There was no thinking. . .There was no reason. . .There was only shock and pain. . .Mari could not even keep track of what was happening to Mina. . .She couldn’t focus on anything except his big body lurching towards her, and her arms aching from being thrown, and her face. . .She cried out again. . .What was he saying. . . Why was he hitting them so much. . .“Are you going to let this happen again?. . .Are you?”

Just when Mari thought this might go on forever, he stopped. His face was reddish purple, his eyes, changing shades of green. His youngest daughter, blinded by tears, could hear his deep angry breaths as her mother comforted both girls, wiping their eyes, rubbing their arms. Marta Singh was saying something to her husband in a language she couldn’t understand, and Mari noticed he wasn’t listening to her. He took a few steps in their direction, and the three of them huddled closer together.

“Get the hell out of my sight!” He barked, waving his arm dismissively. Marta quickly shepherded her daughters out of their bedroom. The three of them saw Victor’s youngest sister Najma standing a few steps above the base of the staircase. Mari watched her mother glare with twisted mouth at her aunt, as did Mina. They went to the kitchen, still shaken from their father’s roars and slaps.

Mina didn’t want to go to school, not like this. She had no idea what her face looked like, but the number of times he raised his hand to her, it could not look good. Mari didn’t want to go either. Once again, Mina had gotten in trouble because of Mari. Neither of them spoke to each other.

Their mother straightened out their white uniforms with her trembling hands, and seeing that Mari was still crying, said, “It’s not your fault, beta. You did nothing wrong. I’m sorry he hurt you like this.” She was addressing both her daughters, putting her arms around each of them.

“Do I have to go to school Mommy?”

“Yes Mari. Papa will be angry again if you don’t.” Mari did not want Papa to be angry again. The children kept out of their father’s sight for the remainder of the time before they had to leave. During the course of the day, Mari would either have to forget, or pretend that their father had not hurt them. While she was at school, she focused on what being in Class I had in store for that day, but she could not pretend, or forget. And later on in the day, even though life continued as if what happened in the morning, or the day before did not take place, the fear remained. The fear that did not go away . . . .

© ana beynaam 2000

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1) This was published in my i-log a while back. This is a slightly re-edited version.

2) While this is fiction, as the credits for Costa Gavras' Z state, "any resemblance to persons or events living is deliberate." This is based on something that happened to me when I was six years old.