Short Story
Green Chilis
art work by amina
He would forever remain 'The Groom' in my memory. I never saw the man in normal attire, or ever again, except on his wedding day in that clownish uniform, which is the traditional garb of Bengali-Muslim bridegrooms. At least, I thought it clownish then, because men of that era, without benefit of role models among cinema heroes who now swagger equally in traditional or western attire, were neither able to carry off the long, cream sherwani coat and tight pajamas with grace, nor balance that crown of turban and garlands without looking as if it were a basket of vegetables to sell. They didn't even have the confidence to refuse the kerchief that they were made to put against their nose as if warding off some bad smell. "It's supposed to show their modesty," old Paagli Nani, the madcap sister of my maternal grandmother explained to us sisters and cousins. We didn't need to be told that this was the male version of the token shyness to be displayed in public by the bride with her lowered head and submissive posture enlivened by tearful break-downs at the prospect of leaving her paternal home. How we made fun of that 'correct bridal mien', giggling ourselves into the easy hysteria of extreme youth which brought the wrong sort of tears to our eyes. "You girls better learn to be shy if you ever expect to be a bride!" our nani would cackle as she stuffed another betel leaf cone into her mouth. "Nonsense!" we protested. My cousin Mini was vociferous: "I will never be a silly Bengali bride, thank you. I'm going to elope and marry Paul McCartney or George Harrison." I adored the Beatles too, but marry one of them? I was never sure about that, and surely there was something compelling - and romantic even? - about the terrifying rigmarole surrounding a Bengali wedding, or why would our Cheeni be getting married to a stranger? Cheeni was the elder sister among us pre-teens and known as Cheeni Apa; but by the rules of Muslim Bengali family relationships, she was actually a Great Aunt and thus qualified to the grand title of 'nani'. We refused to call her 'Cheeni Nani'; it was absurd enough that our matronly mothers and aunts, so much older than Cheeni, addressed her as 'khala' (aunt). The person responsible for all this confusion was my maternal great-grandfather, who had had five wives, though never two wives at once. We heard that they entered his life in succession, bore children, and presently perished. Cheeni was the daughter of his last wife, thus the youngest stepsister of my maternal grandmother. Light skinned and delicate-boned, Cheeni was the miniaturized version of a stately woman in spite of being five foot nothing in the flat-heeled sandals under her cotton saris. I can see her sitting at the study desk in her spartan room in Great Uncle Rizwan Nana's Dhanmondi house. Whenever my family was visiting Dhaka from West Pakistan, and we came to see this brother of my grandmother, my sister and I would rush with our other cousins to see lively young Cheeni Apa, forever studying for some exam. She would put away her books and draw us plump girls to her narrow lap. I remember on one of these visits, perhaps during her BA final exams, lunch being sent to her table. My mouth watered as she mixed hot rice with ghee and mashed potatoes. "Khaabi? Want some?" She winked at me and making a ball of the simple, fragrant food pushed it into my eager mouth. It was delicious, and everyone wanted a mouthful. We watched fascinated as she took a crunching bite from a long green chili with a mouthful of rice. She grinned approvingly, smacking her lips. We whined: "Give us a bite!" She widened her eyes in mock horror: "Are you crazy? It's ferociously hot, shaanghatik jhaal. " "But you ate it!" Our indignant tone accused her of lying to deprive us of this crisp treat. "Ah, but I am a witch, don't you know?" Her eyes twinkled. "I can eat a whole bunch of hot green chilis without a tear in my eyes." I had once bitten one of her chili peppers and felt the sting, so I believed her. When she suddenly decided to marry 'The Rich Doctor from London' there was talk among the relatives, but general approval as well. It was felt that Cheeni had made a brilliant match and an astute move that would liberate a poor relation like her living on the kindness of her eldest stepbrother, my Great Uncle Rizwan Nana. He was my grandmother's own brother, from the same mother, the first wife of my great-grandfather, who died at childbirth number three: our 'madcap Pagli Nani'. This triumvirate comprised the Elders of the Family, who had raised, educated and married off all the other siblings - dozens of my great-aunts and uncles, of which Cheeni was the youngest. She was the same age as the younger son of great-uncle Rizwan. Though aunt and nephew by relationship, she and our dashing young uncle, Raihan Mama, were childhood playmates and close friends. I remember him walking into her room singing a popular song of that time: Cheeni aami cheeni, ogo nondini. We would crowd around her desk, and at her whispered order to ignore him, we would pretend to be blind to his presence till we started to giggle. But Cheeni remained cool till he broke down her reserve too. He was a tease. If she were telling us a ghost story he would debunk it. "What an idiotic story. The real 'petni' (ogress) in the story is this woman." He would playfully hit her on the head with the magazine in his hand. "Just look, her feet are turned back to front." We would scream and scramble to hide behind Raihan Mama's back. Cheeni would slap Mama's arm and shove him out of the door, "Get lost, you!" He would put his head around the curtains, with his eyelids turned inwards. We would scream and hide behind Cheeni's chair. "Hahaha…she isn't safe either. Look at her feet!" We would run to stand helplessly in the middle of the room, screaming our heads off, not knowing whom to trust. Once, in walked stern-faced Beena Nani, (Raihan's mother and Cheeni's step sister-in-law) and snapped at all of us, but mostly at Cheeni, "Ai, ki hotchchey? What's all this noise and childishness? And Raihan, what are you doing here?" Cheeni gave Raihan a vicious look as he departed. After Beena Nani, the spoilsport, left Cheeni was in a foul mood. "Just wait and see what I do to your Raihan Mama for getting me into trouble. I'll bite off his stupid head like a green chili." We dragged Raihan to Cheeni's room for the punishment, but it was no fun. Cheeni was just cold and unresponsive as Raihan bent over her speaking into her ears. We saw her flick his hand off her shoulder, then when she didn't know I was there, she let his hand stroke her fragile shoulder while leaning her head against his sleeve. Oh! We adored the two, and our visits to the otherwise morose house of our Great Uncle Rizwan, composed of the many widowed and ailing female relatives given asylum in this household, were always enlivened by them. After the wedding was announced, we heard our mothers discuss how 'poor Cheeni' had struck lucky and would now be a woman of means, living abroad. The Bengali phrase they used literally translated as: 'Her forehead has opened up.' Although I knew that the Bengali word for forehead, kopaal, was both a part of the face and the fate supposedly written on it, to me it sounded like a grave injury. "He is old and ugly," Cousin Mini brought fresh news about Cheeni's husband-to-be. We were horrified. Bridegrooms were obliged to be good-looking and young; it was an unspoken rule of the wedding game, just as all princes in fairy tales were required to be handsome. It was the early '60's. The wedding was to take place in the most glamorous hotel of Dhaka called Shahbagh. I was barely ten that year and this was the first family wedding that I remember attending. Uncomfortable in my scratchy organza dress, sewn with extra frills and fuss by my mother so all her sisters would die of envy at her skills, I followed my cousins to the dressing room to peek at Cheeni Apa as the bride. We stood at the door, suddenly shy and hesitant as if facing a stranger. Overnight, Cheeni had become an object, 'the konay,' or 'BRIDE' in capital letters. There was nothing of the pretty girl who fed us lumps of fragrant hot rice and mashed potatoes with ghee. Her delicate collar bones were hidden under layers of gold necklaces studded with gems. The smile on Cheeni's lips was tight and artificial. But when she saw us her eyes lit up and she held out her henna-patterned, be-ringed hands. After we hugged and smelled her alien perfume instead of the familiar talcum powder, we let her be ogled by the throngs waiting to view the bride seated beside the bridegroom on the flower-decorated stage. We raced to find a spot closest to where the ceremony would take place. I saw the groom as he came up to take his place on the velvet cushions. He looked huge, his bespectacled face half hidden under the sehra of flowers. I assumed he was ugly, but when he stood up at the bride's arrival I only noticed his tender expression as he looked down at his bride, no higher than his shoulder. She sat down gracefully in a cloud of pink and gold, a tiny but imperial figure. A murmur started in the crowd. Then instead of lowering her head coyly, she looked up steadily, almost defiantly, at the audience. The buzzing faltered into momentary silence. Then, more shocking, she turned sideways smilingly at her groom! A guest sneered, "How shameless! Must have known the groom; perhaps some affair-taffair?" Paagli Nani rushed to her stepsister's defence: "Rubbish! She never saw him before in her life. Don't go by her smile. She is actually sad and heartbroken. I know my poor sister is marrying to escape." One woman smirked, gesturing with a finger beside her temple to indicate someone with a screw loose in the head. My grandmother appeared from nowhere, scolded her madcap sister, and turned to the guest, "Our Cheeni is a modern girl, not shy and foolish as we used to be. She grew up motherless, and needs all your prayers so she will always be as happy as she looks today." My grandmother's dignified words made the guests move away. Pagli Nani continued, "Ha! Anyone can see from Cheeni's eyes her heart is breaking! Her kopaal is like mine…" She struck her forehead sniffling and we moved away in embarrassment. I turned to check Pagli Nani's forehead. It was true; she had the same narrow forehead as Cheeni. Too soon the rituals were over. The mirror in which the bridal couple had viewed each other under the canopy of her veil and the silver bowl of almond-studded rice pudding from which they had fed one another other had been taken away. Then Rizwan Nana took Cheeni's hand and put it in the groom's hand. Cheeni stooped down to touch first her stepbrother's feet, then her two sisters and sister-in-law's. The three beaming nanis patted her head in blessing. One of the guests whispered, "Strong girl! No breaking down into tears, no emotions!" Then before the final farewells, the bride was taken to the dressing room for a final adjusting of sari and a trip to the toilet. We followed the small group of women into the dressing room. Cheeni suddenly pulled me aside. "Ai! Was your Raihan Mama in the hall when I was on stage?" I had seen him once in the distance yelling at a waiter in an uncharacteristically foul mood. I just nodded to Cheeni. She whispered, "Can you give him this? It's top secret, okay?" I nodded vigorously. This was like a game from those jovial old times at her desk. She passed a folded paper into my hands. "Make sure you give it to him when no one is around." Then she hugged me quickly and with a strange smile she turned towards the mirror. Something askew in that smile pushed me to blurt out: "Cheeni Apa, are you happy or sad?" She stopped in the act of adjusting her veil and looked at me blankly for a second. "Happy," she said decisively, and turned to the mirror to reapply her lipstick. I had never seen her with coloured lips. The alien mouth was unsmiling. "Truly?" I asked. "Yes. And be sure to tell your Raihan Mama that I am extremely happy, okay?" Suddenly she smiled. It was the wicked grin of her green chili moments. "Ferociously happy! Shaanghatik khushi!" Her eyes flashed and burned as if her tongue was on fire, but not a tear appeared. Neeman Sobhan is a writer and columnist living in Rome. She is the author of a book on Rome, 'An Abiding City.'
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