Shibu was coming home from her time studying in England. The plane ride back to Jammu was claustrophobic, and she was suffocated by the idea of returning to a home that wasn’t like the home she had left.
After the plane landed, she had to take a train from the city to the village. Shibu hated long journeys; she was a creature of habit and a victim of motion sickness. She preferred stillness and routine to the chaos of desi trains or busy streets. She had built a routine for herself during her time at university, and she had grown to love it, but she never forgot the gentle ambling of the village. She recalled slow mornings over paratha and laachi chai, the call of roosters and goats in the backyard. She recalled being taught how to cook her grandma’s karahi, a recipe she ought to preserve, followed by loud evenings in the courtyard with her mother, aunt, and grandma. Three generations of women as strong as oxen but as gentle as the bubbling of milk in steel pans.
She feared that things would be different now. Shibu wasn’t a young girl anymore; she was returning home a woman, and things are different for women than they are for everyone else. There was no specific reason she felt this sense of anxiety. She had always been treated with dignity by her family. There was, of course, the expected tempers of father and uncles. Her father had been averse to the idea of her being educated, let alone in a foreign country, but when a local girl, one of Shibu’s childhood friends, was killed by her abusive husband, her parents decided perhaps it was best. Better for her to have the option to leave than be forced to rely on a man, her aunt had asserted. She had heard her aunt lament that even the buffalos have it better than them.
When Shibu finally reached the family home, she was greeted by tears and hugs—so many at once, but all in their own clarity of heart. Her mother and grandmother, it seemed, had decorated the staircase and kitchen table with red carnations—Shibu’s favorite color as a child. She’d had a doll who wore a red wedding lehenga, and she’d often said that she wanted one just like that someday.
The carnations, however, were wilting in the July heat. The decorated house, to her, felt like a funeral service. They were all so pleased to have her back home, she had grown up so much, they were all so proud. Proud and incredibly sad, Shibu thought. As she followed inside to the living area, she found Baba Ghulam and Hala Ji sitting inside with their son. Though optimistic, Shibu was no fool. That’s what the funeral service is for, she thought to herself. The death of her girlhood was approaching.
She had expected this day to come. She just thought that she’d have some time to make use of her education, or maybe even just spend a few years alone in the village. Would she be allowed to trek into the grassy mountains deep into the evening now? Would she be allowed to run off to the backyard and play with the animals whenever she pleased? Cooking would no longer be a fun bonding opportunity, it would be a chore. One that she could get beaten for if done poorly.
The formalities had been carried out before her arrival and the arrangement for the marriage was pretty much set, given she consented. Though consent would be an interesting word to use here. It implies choice. When the choice is between drowning in a loveless marriage or drowning in shame and disgrace, there isn’t much anyway.
After the acceptance of the proposal had been done, the guests left. They would be back in two weeks to take her to her new home. Shibu looked at her mother and aunt. Their eyes said that they were sorry. She forgave them. It wasn’t their world after all. They too were just girls trying to make sense of it all. With a heavy heart and a light head, she stepped into the backyard where the animals were. The sweet buffalo that had been there since her childhood came close to her. Shibu had missed her.
Shibu and her friend, Raani, had given the buffalo the name Mithu, meaning sweet, because her warm countenance and friendliness always cheered up the girls as children. When they were small, Raani’s older sister told the pair that Mithu was not actually a buffalo; rather, she was a Kashmiri princess trapped in a buffalo’s body. The princess had been told by the town mystic that she was to be married to a man who would have lusts for horrific things and an appetite for violence. Her only way to escape was to take a medicine that would turn her into a buffalo. The mystic had told her that being a buffalo was better than being a woman. She would be valued for her work and admired for her strength. And best of all, no man would look at her body with a lustful gaze or violence in his hands. Terrified of what would become of her mind, she took the medicine. It was a childish tale, but Shibu and Raani, each in their own hearts, believed that it could be true.
Shibu petted Mithu with tender palms. She looked behind her to see if anyone was watching. “What should I do?” she asked Mithu in a desperate whisper. The buffalo grunted. Shibu heard it as “Say no.”
“But I can’t! I’ll spend the rest of my life alone, put to shame by the rest of the village with no prospect of a better life.”
“Don’t pity yourself,” the buffalo said. “Look at what you have. An education is better than what most girls have. I didn’t have anything except the dream of marriage, but that dream was more nightmarish than I could have imagined. If I’d had what you have, I would have said no. You can’t live your whole life in fear. You’re not a buffalo, you are a woman, and women have dreams just as men do. Don’t crush them for the sake of this village. People will move on and find the next woman to slate as soon as you’re married off. Don’t ruin your life out of fear of them.”
“But that’s terrifying. Who will help me build a life of my own if my own family throws me out?” Shibu asked. The buffalo grunted again. Shibu heard someone from inside ask why it kept making noise.
“It is terrifying,” the buffalo told her, “but it’s all you have. Make use of it. Some women would kill to go back and change their choices.”
Shibu looked into the buffalo’s eyes and pondered. Big black orbs, full of sorrow. Her dark fur shone in the midday sun. Beautiful and strong, just like so many women Shibu knew.
That evening, as the sun set on the valley and the village folk retired to their abodes, Shibu sat outside with her mother, aunt, and grandmother, just as she had often done before. The sky was dark blue and littered with the most wonderful little beams of light. In the night, the heat was cooler and less suffocating, for it was accompanied by a gentle breeze and the shadow of the carpet sky. It was interesting to Shibu how such a tender valley could harbor a village full of such cruel men.
When the night was still and the women sat alone over their chai, braiding one another’s hair, Shibu decided it was here that she would stay. It would be a difficult task, but her time was not yet. She was still a girl in a woman’s body, and even the oldest of women were still girls in this village.
Safa Ali is an aspiring writer who combines academic rigor with a creative flare. Her distinctive voice in literature, nurtured by a profound love for poetry and art, resonates with readers seeking originality and depth.
Featured image by Zachary Pearson.
