An Unrestored Woman by Shobha Rao Page B

bustling. As instructed, Bandra applied the uptan. All the girls bathed and dressed in their best clothes; none of them worked. They played games in the courtyard, and teased each other like schoolgirls. Abdul Kareem sent sweets, which made them squeal, and they ate them all afternoon with relish. That evening they had a meal of mutton, and capsicum curry, and paratha lathered with ghee. Siddiqah lay on the cushion in the sitting room, groaning with stomach pain from all the sweets and rich food. Bandra told her to go to bed. One by one all the girls left, except Layla. She walked over to the trunk full of clothes and touched its edges.
    â€œThis is all for me?” she asked.
    â€œThat’s right,” Bandra said, dozing.
    She opened the squeaking lid of the trunk and looked inside. She turned and said, “Bandra-ma?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œMay I sleep here tonight?”
    â€œWhy do you want to do that?”
    â€œIt’s my last night.”
    Bandra agreed, yawning. She was asleep almost as soon as Layla blew out the candle. But just before she did, Bandra saw that the lid of the trunk was still open. She thought she should ask her to close it, but she didn’t.
    *   *   *
    It was nearly morning when Bandra felt a gentle waft of wind against her feet. It was so soft; it tickled. She rubbed her feet together in her sleep and smiled, slightly, as if she were dreaming. Then there was another breeze (she thought she’d closed the window) but this time, it blew the other way, though it was just as lovely, like feathers. She was playing in this wind; she heard it rustle the leaves of the trees. They danced gaily, just for her. But then the branches swung low and scraped against her ankles. Cut into them. The branches of what trees? That’s what she asked herself in her dream, what trees?
    Then her eyes shot open.
    The moment they did, someone stuffed a rag into her mouth. Bandra gagged. A shadow passed over her. She bucked forward. Her arms flailed. It was too dark to see the intruder; the window was closed. Her eyes blurred. Focus, she told herself. She tried to get up but her ankles were bound. It was as if her feet had fused in the night. She tilted her head to look down and see what held them but by then someone came from behind, yanked up her arms, and tied them roughly, trussing at the wrists so that her fingers tingled. Bandra thrashed. She flopped onto her stomach. Who was it? She blew against the rag in her mouth, blew hard, but it stayed in place. The intruder turned her over again with a kick to her stomach. She groaned in pain. And then, only then, did she see who it was. And only because she wanted her to.
    It was Layla.
    She looked down at Bandra. Her face in the half-light was motionless. Eerie in its beauty. She left the room. Bandra crawled and kicked toward the door. Slithered like a snake. She’d hardly moved a yard or two when Layla came back. She had the curved knife in her hand, the one shaped like a scimitar, and Bandra thought she might slit her throat. But instead, Layla bent down, shoved a knee into her chest, and thrust Bandra’s head to the side. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the wooden base of the knife coming toward her. In the next instant, it rammed into her face. Rush of pain. A blurred hand reached out. Then the knife came down again.
    Teeth flew out.
    As Bandra lay groaning, Layla snipped the keys from her kurta bottom, opened the door leading to the street, and let in the morning light. And as if in a dream, the dream that Bandra had just left, Layla turned toward her, and she said, “My name is Zubaida.”
    *   *   *
    Bandra was found, not much later. The swelling and pain in her face took weeks to subside. Her tongue, when she was finally able to move it, groped for teeth and found only three. And what had been used to bind her hands and feet, Bandra was told, were the cheap silks she had bought for