The Cerebral Catalyst

I was going to let it all go, do nothing, until the night Parveen said she wanted to go to college and study zoology. She said it with a glint of defiance in her eyes, but I saw her raised chin tremble just a little when Papa dropped his spoon. When he looked at me, I felt like a traitor for saying nothing: a traitor to my family, to my religion, to all the bragging I did around my friends. As her older brother, I should have said something right then, should have said something before then, but, as on so many other occasions, I remained shamefully silent.

"What are you going to do," he asked icily, "with a degree in zoology?"

Parveen lowered her eyes. "I might go to medical school," she whispered.

Papa moved his hand toward the bowl of dessert, letting it thump down heavily on the spoon so the sweet milk splattered on the table.

"Parveen," he said. "Clean that up."

The next Friday Mama needed Parveen to come home straight after school. She called Mrs. Riley, the biology teacher, to explain why she just couldn't let Parveen go with her that day. Mrs. Riley was very understanding; family comes first, after all, but she hoped Parveen would be able to come along on Tuesday for the lecturer from Michigan. Mama murmured something noncommittal and hung up. Although I considered saying something then, I didn't; I just finished printing my physics lab report, grabbed my car keys, and kissed Mama good-bye.

Once, in an argument, Parveen accused Dad of having been born with that iron rod up his back. It must have seemed that way to her; she couldn't remember what he used to be like. But I recall his face when we first arrived from Karachi, though only dimly, and I remember clearly his face when Parveen was born. He was so proud of his beautiful baby, so fond of her that it made me feel a little jealous. I wished she had been a boy like me so he'd love us both the same, but he didn't. So I couldn't understand why, despite all the special attention he gave her, she grew up so angry. Every Saturday morning, while Mama was fixing us a big breakfast, he called Parveen into his room for a special talk. I was never allowed into the room for these talks — even Mama had to stay out.

Only once was there a deviation from this routine: it was a cold morning, and Mama wanted her slippers to wear in the kitchen, but she had left them by the bed. When she went into the room to get them, she screamed. Parveen was already seven, but she started crying just like a baby when Mama pushed her out of the room; I teased her about it for weeks. I heard my parents shouting in Urdu, but I didn't understand what about. Parveen stood in the hallway shaking and holding the hem of her nightdress gathered up in both hands.

Mama served lunch that day with the worst bruises I ever saw on her, before or since, but her eyes were perfectly dry.

As Parveen's eighth birthday neared, Dad grew so overprotective of her that she could hardly play outdoors anymore. Even though she was still young, and her chest was flatter than mine, he started insisting that she wear looser clothing. She was no longer permitted to wear jeans; Mama started sewing shalwar khamees, traditional Pakistani clothing, for her to wear to school. Under no circumstances must she be seen talking to a boy. Dad gave me strict instructions that if I saw her doing so, I must stop them. Sometimes I felt sorry for her, and if a boy only wanted to ask her a question about their homework I looked the other way, but a few times I intervened and escorted her home, my lips pressed tight together. Eventually the boys in her school just learned not to talk to her.

Because she was a girl, Dad was also stricter about her use of the phone. He always asked her who she was talking to; a couple of times he even got on the line himself. At sixteen Parveen became very rebellious; without telling anyone, she enrolled in drivers' education classes at school and managed to get a driver's license. Dad was furious, but Parveen informed him defiantly that in America everyone needed a driver's license. He shouted at her that she might have a piece of paper that said she knew how to drive but he was never going to let a girl sit in the front seat of his car.

Not long afterward, Parveen came home in a short haircut and jeans, and announced that she was going with Mrs. Riley on Friday afternoons with a team of researchers from the university, who were studying the nearby fox population. She and a few other students with outstanding grades in science had been invited along to participate in the fieldwork, and she was excited, almost giddy with delight. It was the first time I actually saw Dad hit her. But that Friday she did not come home from school at the regular time, and to my surprise Mama admitted to me that she had signed the permission form for Parveen to give the teacher; she supported Parveen in that little act of rebellion.

The day after Mom called Mrs. Riley to cancel their outing for that week, Parveen refused to go to Dad's room for their Saturday morning talk. I couldn't ignore the sound of her screams when he went to her instead. When I burst into the room and pulled him off her, he took a swing at me, but I had grown larger than him and I worked out at the recreation center on campus. I slammed him into the wall, then threw him to the floor and began pummeling him with my fists. Eventually he stopped even fighting back, but in my rage I kept hitting him. His yells gave way to grunts, then not even grunts, and I didn't stop. He wasn't moving, and my fists were getting blood on them, and I'd heard some sickening cracks in his ribs and his collarbone. When I finally desisted, Parveen was still crouched in the corner.

I approached her, tried to put a hand out to smooth her short hair. She whimpered and crept away from me with tears welling up in her eyes. Mama was standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and silent; Parveen ran to her. I felt strangely numb. Acting automatically, as if some strange reflex had kicked in, I went to call an ambulance.

______________________________________
posted 08.29.05

Emergent Properties:

Main

F.A.Q.

About

Archives (alphabetical)
Archives (chronological)

Links - Updated 05.05.08

Books - Updated 05.05.08

Pandemic Poetry

Taglines

Site founded May 7th, 2003, by Project Catalyst.
All written material is the copyrighted property of its respective authors.
All other elements can be blamed on the Cerebral Catalyst Editorial Board.