Excerpt from "Zafar"

By Arsh Haque (Class of 2015)

            She would call him just before dinner. It would be a small flat in Calcutta, near Victoria Memorial.

            “Daanish, come here.”

            He’d wear torn jeans, a Weezer t-shirt, and Phillips headphones that would dangle like a necklace. It would be the mid-1990s. His feet would make a succession of suctioned pops against the tiled floor.

            “Yeah, ma? What’s for dinner?”

            “Sit down, Daanish.”

            She wouldn’t have the energy to tell the story like she’d like to, but she’d try. He would be a late child, twelve years after the first. The first would’ve been a girl, married off to an unknown face in a distant land. She would have never heard this story.

            The mother would grab a stool – a curry-stained, wooden cooking stool beside the stove. She’d check the pot one last time, pick up her shawl, and try not to pop her knees on the way down. The vigor of her youth would be dwindling, and she would know it. She would count the years in strands of gray hair. He would grab a chair from the dining table and sit next to her; cringe at its plastic crinkle. All the dining chairs would have a plastic sleeve on them, as not to get dirty. He wouldn’t say a word about it, but it would show on his face. He would be a quiet, obedient son.

            “Do you know my middle name, Daanish?”

            “You don’t have a middle name, ma.”

            “No – my real middle name.”

            “Oh, yeah, yeah. Ara. Why?”

            “Do you know why it’s Ara?”

            “Nani passed the name on to you, just like you passed it to Apa.”

            “Almost.” And then she’d tell the story.

That deep in the forest of the Great Banyan Tree on the outskirts of Calcutta, there was a woman. The gray woman. Ara. And Daanish would turn his head when she said this, for Ara is not a name, it is a title. The unspoken middle name of every Indian girl; holding in it all the fears and fictions that make the Indian Woman; carried on and hidden like a secret in the silences of each new daughter’s name.

Before it became the city as we know it, Calcutta was once a village too, she would say. Do you know Raj biyah’s building? He would nod his head. There used to be a pond there, she would say, your grand-chachu used to fish there. Daanish would only be half-present, caught up in a trail of ants marching through the grout and a song stuck in his head.

For generations, it was the honor of the first born son to find her, to find their Ara. The Indian gods made her to be found, but by giving her the woman’s spirit, made her as difficult as the Indian Woman herself. So into the woods they went. And out of the woods they returned, in tire and rue, to understanding fathers who had failed too. But every once in a while, one would go missing. Daanish would perk up.

The men in the village never spotted the trend. They were too mechanical, measuring their successes with sun-dials and a compass. “You must go North-East from your khala’s home,” one man would say. “Tsk, tsk, it’s the time, just before midnight.” “But what about Rajiv?” a third man would say. And the other two would admit, “That’s true.” While the women – we never said a word – for we knew, for it whispered to us in the silences of our name. But here I am, the mother would say, here to tell you.

Men, she would explain, are so busy thinking they never see. It’s not the time, it’s not direction, babu – it is the light. She is the gray woman because you find her in the gray light; in the morning twilight, when the moon crashes against the sun and sheds its skin upon the Earth; on murky, cloudy days. There’s no definite way to say. There is no pattern, there is no meaning – you cannot articulate the way. It is not your choice to find her; it is Ara’s choice to be found.

And if a boy was so unlucky to be chosen, it would go something like this. He’d be getting on his way through the forest, the way young Indian boys do; grabbing branches, kicking rocks, paying no attention to what’s around him. When on his fifth or sixth time through he’d stumble upon a clearing he didn’t think was there. And there she’d be. Waiting. Cast in sharp, silver light. And no matter the boy, if he were playboy or cricket captain, he would do just the same. He didn’t have a choice. The gods did not give one.

Before he could see her, while she was nothing but a blur female figure; curves and no features; he would fall forward, one knee, then the other, bow his head; and pray. The grass his janemaaz; the Ara his ka’aba. For all he could bear to see were her feet. She was Beauty, Daanish-beta – the reason young boys look down when they see a beautiful woman. The reason some of us wear hijabs. Daanish would look confused, and she would try again.

Women hide from the sun, but why? she would ask. To become lighter? he would say. Not just lighter. In us we know our true color, she would explain. We know the Ara; we know the gray. It doesn’t matter what happens to us by day. If our masalas fall out the window, if our husband beats us, if our son spills our perfume. Daanish would bite his tongue, and dart his eyes to a specific carpet corner in guilt. Because that’s not important. What’s important is Ara. So when we stay inside, it means something – it’s that part of us trying to become her; to throw away our day and become something Beautiful.

But here is the lesson, she would say wagging a sad, wrinkled finger, eyebrows aflame. The boys do not come back, do they? They stay there, huddled like piglets at her feet. She would spit pan into a pink, plastic cup on the counter.

And what do you think happened? she would ask with a smile. He would not respond. When the gray light ended, and color returned to the world, the spell was broken; and the boy looked up.

He saw her there, naked, in her true form. And he was disgusted. For Ara is not young, and she is not pretty. The gods made her so long ago. But he tried to hide it, he tried to look down – but she saw it, she saw that look. We always do, she would say, looking at the sleeve of his chair.

Then she took him by his chin, put her thumb upon his lips. And the mother would do just the same. Curled her fingers on the skin just above the throat. And she’d clench – hand balled into a tiny first; fingernails up, through the mouth, and grab you by the tongue. And she’d laugh. A wild woman’s laugh. Laugh as the blood pooled in your mouth, and your eyes grew old before her. Laugh with the wrath and pain of the thousands of women beat and burned before her. This was her pittance. For the crimes of man, she took their sons.

So if you find your Ara in the gray hour, Daanish-beta, be careful. Her beauty will fade, but she will have you by the tongue. You will love her as a god, and she will watch you die. Be careful, babu, be careful."

Arsh Haque is a junior McConnell Scholar from Elizabethtown, KY.  Haque is studying political science.