Moth Smoke

16 the wife and mother (part two)

It’s me again: Mumtaz. Now commonly called ‘the monster.’ Sometimes even to my face. Which makes my story, I suppose, a kind of monster story. With Daru among my victims.

I wonder what would have happened if I’d met him a few months earlier, when he still had his job. Or maybe even years earlier, before his mother died, before I’d gotten married and had Muazzam. We probably would have had an insane affair, a couple weeks of wild sex, and that would have been that. I wonder, because that’s what should have happened. But when I met Daru his life was falling apart, and our relationship became something else.

Even though I told him not to, Daru fell in love with me. Maybe ‘love’ isn’t the right term. He became obsessed with me. And I guess you could say that it was, at least in part, my fault. I stayed with him past the first warning signs. I don’t know if that was wrong of me. All I know is that it made me feel good to take care of him. I was desperate to prove to myself that I wasn’t a bad person, that I wasn’t selfish and uncaring, that I could be giving and good. That it wasn’t my fault I didn’t love my son.

As soon as I heard Daru had been arrested for killing a boy in a car accident, I told Ozi. And Ozi smiled.

That’s when I realized Ozi knew about our affair. He’d never said anything, didn’t say anything even then. But something in his expression left no doubt in my mind. I felt sick. Disgusted by what Daru had done, disgusted by my husband’s glee, disgusted at myself for having the affair in the first place, for ending it so abruptly. I felt sorry for all of us.

And then I made up my mind. I decided that I couldn’t stay in this house any longer, that I needed to abandon my family to save myself.

I thought about Muazzam growing up without a mother. I told myself that he would still have Ozi, his grandparents, his nanny. That they would take care of him. That he’d be emotionally disturbed if he grew up with a mother like me. That already I was spoiling him to make up for the love I didn’t feel. But as much as I tried, I never convinced myself I wasn’t hurting my son by leaving him behind. I just knew I had to. And I felt strong enough to live with it.

So one day I transferred half the money in our joint account to one I’d opened for myself, took my jewelry out of the safe-deposit box, and packed two suitcases. I felt almost as determined as I had the day I told Ozi I’d marry him. But when I told Ozi I was leaving, when I saw him register the shock and pain, then I felt sad, too. For both of us. And for Muazzam.

Ozi didn’t get angry. He was quiet for a long time. And when he spoke, softly, he just said he’d see to it that Daru wouldn’t get out of prison for a long time.

I didn’t lie, didn’t pretend I hadn’t had an affair. I just said, ‘You killed the boy, didn’t you?’

Ozi didn’t answer. Which was his answer. I felt like crying.

He didn’t speak again until the servants were carrying out my suitcases. Then he said, ‘Please stay. I’ll forgive you.’

And who will forgive you?

I thought I would go home to Karachi, but I haven’t. Something keeps me here. Zulfikar Manto, maybe. My parents’ complete inability to understand. A reluctance to run from where I’ve been, what I was.

I think about Muazzam more than anything else. I remember his long eyes, eyes that are neither mine nor Ozi’s but his own, uninherited, original. He isn’t a strong boy. He tires easily, cries more than most three-year-olds. But he likes my voice, likes me to read to him. It puts him to sleep.

Muazzam called me ‘Amma.’ And not softly, but insistently, desperately, even when he was barely awake. I wonder if he always knew I would leave him. Maybe all children do, maybe that’s where nightmares come from, nature telling them their parents will be gone one day. But I wonder if mine suspected his would leave sooner than she should.

I don’t think I will ever be able to explain to him why his mother couldn’t stay.

One thing he will definitely know is that his mother was a very bad woman. Everyone’s talking about this trial, and more than anything else they seem fascinated by the question of whether or not Daru and I were having an affair. I say ‘the question,’ but it isn’t, really. I don’t think many people are giving me the benefit of the doubt.

Or Daru, for that matter.

But Zulfikar Manto’s been writing an article that tells things from Daru’s perspective, or what I imagine his perspective to be – I haven’t spoken with him since he was locked up. I’ve interviewed people who are willing to say, anonymously, of course, that a Pajero and not a Suzuki killed the boy. And certain members of the Accountability Commission, while refusing to be quoted, have pointed out that it would be extremely inconvenient for Khurram Shah, himself under investigation, if his son were to be accused of this crime.

Manucci’s been a big help tracking down witnesses. When I left Ozi he left with me. I’ve discovered he’s a brilliant investigator. I might make a journalist out of him, once I’ve taught him how to read properly.

I doubt the article will do much good, but at least Daru will have some defenders. Which is more than I have. But I’m finding I can live with myself, which shocks me more than anything.

Maybe I am a monster, after all.