Creative writing - The Disappearance.

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The Disappearance

At first when they heard about the disappearance they didn’t believe it. “Why, we saw her the other day at the Ram Ratan grocery store” they proclaimed. “Yes, didn’t she wave to us yesterday with her little boy? He looked just like her. We spoke to her the other day, she had that salwar-kameez on, yes she never did wear English clothes.”

“Terrible” others whined. “Its getting so that nobody’s safe here in London these days.”

Because that’s what everyone thought. Crime. It must have been.

How else could an Indian woman in a bright flowered lime sari and Nike walking shoes just disappear?

So thinking the worst, that maybe Zeneve had been abducted, raped or maybe even murdered, her husband reported her missing that very night.

She’d been out for her evening walk he told the police. She took one everyday after he got back from the office. Yes, yes always alone. She said it was her time alone, time for herself. Away from the bubbling curries in their non-stick pans as they hissed on the cooker, away from the never ending chores that had to be done, her own tranquil world where the domesticated wife was non-existent…that’s how she had put it to him. (He didn’t quite understand that, but was happy to watch his little boy play football with him, perhaps, until she returned to serve them dinner.)

“Did you folks have a quarrel?” the policeman inquired with a stern look on his podgy face as he looked up from his notepad. “No” the husband retorted, looking directly into his eyes, “of course we didn’t.”

Later, he would think about what the policeman had asked, while he sat in front of his computer in his office, or while he lay in the bed, which still seemed to smell of her. (But surely that was his imagination-the linen had been washed already.)

He had told the truth about them not having a quarrel, hadn’t he? (He prided himself on being an honest man, he often told his son how important it was not to lie, see what happened to Pinocchio’s nose.) And even now when the boy asked him where Mama was, he didn’t say she had gone on a trip, as some of his friend’s wives had advised him. “I don’t know”, he rejoined. And when the boy’s thin face would crumple he held him in his lap awkwardly and tried to stroke his hair, like he had seen his wife do, but he couldn’t bring himself to say what the boy needed to hear “She’ll be back soon.” So over and over again he simply exclaimed “I don’t know.”

They hadn’t really had a fight. She wasn’t, thank God, the quarrelsome type, like some of his friend’s wives. Quiet. That’s how she was, at least around him, although sometimes when he came home unexpectedly, he would hear her singing to her son, her voice slightly off-key but full and poised. Or laughing as she chased him around the family room, “Mama’s going to get you, get you,” both of them shrieking with sheer exuberance, until they saw him. “Hush now,” she would tell the boy, “settle down.” And they would walk over sedately to give him his welcome home kiss.

He couldn’t complain though. Wasn’t that what he had specified when his mother started asking, “When are you getting married? I’m getting old. I want to see a grandson before I die.”

If you can find me a quiet, pretty girl, he wrote back to her in his letters, not brash like Calcutta girls nowadays, not with too many western ideas. Someone who would be relieved to have her husband make the major decisions. But she had to be smart, at least a year of college, someone he could introduce to his friend’s with pride.

He’d flown to Calcutta to view several suitable girls that his mother had picked out. But now, thinking back, he can only remember her.

She had sat, head bowed, jasmine plaited into her flowing, black hair, silk sari draped modestly over her shoulders, just like all the other prospective brides he’d seen. Nervous, he’d thought, yearning to be chosen.

But when she had looked up at him gracefully, that’s when he fell in love with her.

That’s when he knew she was the one.

Her heart-shaped face and dusky radiant complexion created a flow amidst the room. Her sultry, almond eyes met his, filled with dreams, aspirations, needs to be fulfilled. The rosebud lips, outlined with a deep magenta and retroussed nose complemented her plucked eyebrows as she sat confident…almost disinterested, as if she were wondering if he would make a suitable spouse.

For him it was love at first sight. This sophisticated, incandescent, credulous woman had stolen his heart and turned it into candle wax…he knew she was the one.    

They were married within a week in spite of his mother’s protests. (Had she caught that same look?) That something about the girl just didn’t feel right, his mother had grumbled.

He was a good husband. No one could deny it. He let her have her own way, indulged her, even. When the kitchen was remodelled, for example, and she wanted pink and grey tiles even though he preferred white. White. A clean colour. A colour he believed to be innocent, just like his wife.

He was traditional as an Indian man could get. He had expectations from his wife. Demands that had to be fulfilled.

She would dress as he would tell her too, sleep with him when he wanted her to.

Not only that, she would provide him with a son and a daughter. The duty of every Indian wife was to give their husband a child, regardless of whether they wanted to or not.

He would be the provider in this relationship. She would cook and clean at home while he worked.

It was tradition after all and he was very traditional.

However, when he did put his foot down he would often soften his no’s with kind remarks. There had been two occasions that he strongly remembered in which he had to be firm. Like when she wanted to get a job and go back to school or buy English clothes.

Nobody in his family had ever worn English clothes, except for the men that is.

His mother, his mother’s mother and sisters had always dressed in Indian clothes…no matter what the occasion.  

He preferred Indian clothes on his wife too. After all they hid her body. The loose blouses didn’t reveal her breasts like some English tops or show an unnecessary amount of cleavage. The endless mounds of fabric concealed his wife’s legs and waistline.

He believed his wife’s body was just for him to look at. Why tempt other men to look at his wife’s curvaceous hips or low cut neckline?

The soft remarks that often accommodated his no’s were mostly, “What for? I’m here to take care of you” or “You look so much prettier in your Indian clothes, so much more feminine.” He would pull her to his lap and give her a kiss and cuddle, which usually ended with him taking her to the bedroom.

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That was another area where he had to be firm. Sex. His wife was constantly pleading with him, “Please, not tonight.” He didn’t mind that. She was, after all, a well-bred Indian girl.

She had good Indian values that he felt all Indian women should have. Her dreams in life were those of his mother’s. She wanted to marry, have children and live a contented life in a glorious home. She was conservative and an introvert. Not a woman who would cause him embarrassment in front of friends and family. Timid…someone who needed support and he believed that he ...

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