My father-in-law is usually very accommodative of my cooking, but the not so round shape of the rotis today were a bit much to handle, I know. ‘Bahu, round rotis signify how good a daughter-in-law one is,’ he said in his usual patriarchal tone from the dining table. I was trying very hard to stand still and roll the rotis well, but the burning just didn’t go away. I was twirling one leg in front of the other, moving back and forth and, in the process, losing grip of the rolling pin. When my father-in-law, my husband and my daughter finally got up from the table after lunch, I threw the rolling pin on the side of the double stove and ran to the toilet and washed myself for ten minutes. My vagina was burning.
My husband had come back from a month-long work trip last evening. When I opened the door to his knock, my father-in-law and daughter who were both eagerly waiting to see him greeted him with a hug. I was nervous and excited, both, at the same time. I served him and others his favourite spicy chicken curry and rice with my home-made chilli pickle. They all licked their plates and their fingers clean. ‘Wash your hands at least Raghavji’, I told him when he came into the room straight from the table, while the others were washing their hands, and grabbed me from behind. His fingers were red from the spicy gravy and the pickle oil. I was tired. All I wanted to do was to take a hot shower before we went to bed. I had spent the last three days preparing food orders for Diwali and my back was hurting with all the bending. But I knew he would not take no for an answer today and why should he, he had come back home to his wife after so long. ‘Snighdha will knock, please wait for half an hour,’ I pleaded. ‘At least, wash your hands Raghavji, please’. He would not listen. He threw me on the bed, his face between my breasts and his oily fingers forced their way into me. The burning! I screamed into the palm of my hand so I would not be heard. The burning has remained since. What he thought would give me pleasure was only his fantasy. I was stinging inside and out – the price of making a spicy chilli pickle. Thankfully, Snigdha knocked at our bedroom door. I quickly pushed Raghavji away, fixed my sari and opened the door. I ran into the kitchen and cleaned up. I knew it was going to be a long and painful night ahead for me, and for the week to come.
It has been twenty hours since Raghavji came and the burning has only gotten worse. My tissues are red and swollen but he will leave the city in a week, so it is difficult for me to ask him to stop. And unfair. After all I am his wife and if I do not understand what he needs who will? I still remember the day we got married. I had never had a boyfriend, in fact from where I came, we did not even interact with boys. I had met him twice in the company of our elders before we were married. For a girl like me who had never even held a boy’s hand, to start sharing her bed with one was a very big deal. I had decided to request Raghavji on the night of our marriage to give me some time to get to know him before we consummated our marriage. I still fail to understand why the marital bed is given so much importance and why it is decorated on the first night? Is it assumed that two people who may not even have met each other and have had little or no interaction with the opposite sex will get intimate on their first encounter with each other because they are now a couple? I still remember how a glass of milk was thrust into Raghavji’s hands and he was pushed inside our new room by his sisters, who were giggling, and how they shut the door behind him. He came into the room and before I could ask him to be my first male friend, he started taking off my clothes. I hesitated and told him I want to talk to him. He got irritated, pinned both my hands down, smiled at me and said we had a lifetime to talk. Before I knew, the lights were turned off and I was buried under the weight of my partner for life. Snigdha was born eleven months after we took our wedding vows.
I like to see my mustard seeds, curry leaves and green chillies splutter when I add them to hot oil while making poha. The way the dark green of the leaves and chilli turns slightly lighter and the curry leaves turn crisp, adds so much flavour. I was preparing poha for my family’s evening snack now. Snigdha loves it. I hope when she gets married, her partner respects her and does not judge her on the basis of how good her cooking has been that evening and hopefully, the tiffin she prepares for his office will not determine how harsh he is in bed with her. I hope she can become what she wants to in life, a mother, a pilot, a teacher or even a singer. I used to sing so well myself, I even sang at my own sangeet amidst the clapping of hands of so many of my family members. His family looked embarrassed at the sight of the bride singing. He asked me to sing for him on the night of our wedding, in our room. After I finished the first verse, he asked me to stop. Said every chord seemed mismatched. I have not sung since.
The last time I went to consult the gynaecologist was when I was eight months pregnant and there was some complication. The doctor asked me to tell my husband strictly no to any kind of intimacy at all. I did not know how to explain to her that if I resisted too much, I could lose my baby. At the risk of putting the family honour at stake, I told her that I could not control what my husband wanted to do with me. At times he got violent, but only very rarely, when he had had a tough day at work. She used a phrase that day which I still do not quite understand. She said what he does amounts to marital rape. How is that even possible? I was his wife. How can one rape their wife? The first time I had heard this phrase was while I was preparing sewai for a food order, just before Eid. My father-in-law was laughing hysterically listening to a debate on television where some NGO type women were asking for ‘Marital Rape’ to be criminalised. ‘The next thing these men-hating feminists will do is ask for death penalty for the husbands, my father-in-law said. I remember the next clip of the news program having a woman minister say that the concept of marital rape cannot be applied to India because of factors like illiteracy, customs etc. I agree. One of the reasons I instantly agreed to marry Raghavji when his family came to our house with the marriage proposal was his educational qualification.
I have an appointment with the gynaecologist today. I finally convinced Raghvji that it was necessary for me to go when he saw blood oozing out from down there on our third encounter in twenty hours and I told him that I would not be able to continue if I did not see a doctor. He was disappointed but graciously agreed to let me go. I am about to serve them both a steaming bowl of poha. They are watching the news together. Both he and my father-in-law are applauding the news of a rape victim’s criminals being awarded life imprisonment. Raghavji says it was only fair that in today’s world, where it is extremely unsafe for women to go out, this was the only way to ensure that women are safe from predators.
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Mariya Salim is a women's rights activist and researcher. She writes on issues concerning women and minorities in India on portals such as The Wire and Al Jazeera. Cooking her grandmother's recipes for friends and family is what keeps her busy in her free time!