"It appears that ordinary men take wives because
possession is not possible without marriage, and
that ordinary women accept husbands because marriage
is not possible without possession; with totally
differing aims, the method is the same on both sides."


-Thomas Hardy



I have always loved the sense of luxury that emanates from my living-room: from the thick woollen carpet, the sophisticated shade of wallpaper, the richly-textured curtains veiling aluminium french-windows, the polished teakwood table, the contemporary olive-green settee, and the Old World armchair. Ordinarily, my pride in owning such an elegant ensemble soothes and reassures me. Tonight, more piquant moods prevailed as I faced the armchair in which sat the Man who was my conscience.

The conversation, though in its rudimentary stages, had already begun to disturb me. As usual, all I knew of where our dialogue was headed was that I did not want it going there.

"So you are claiming that ours is not a male-dominated society," He was saying.

"Well no..."

"Then you are saying that you are not one of the domineering men."

"Yes. Sort of - I know that I am different..."

"Of course, of course. But something does not seem right."

"No, no," I denied.


"You need a, a confirmation perhaps," He suggested.

"Yes, perhaps," I said quietly, not knowing what else to say.

"Well, let us recap. We agree that as far as education goes, girls are not encouraged as much as boys. Those who are given a chance will be discouraged from going beyond a certain level -- also from going abroad. The lack of specialization and the general mediocrity of our educational system, make it almost impossible for them to get good, competitive jobs. Yes?"

"Yes, quite."

"Even so it wouldn't be so bad if they were allowed to finish their education, get a degree. But no, they must be married off."

"Yes but, I wouldn't have done that to my daughter if I had one. You see--"

"Why would you have educated her?"

"Because I believe that everyone needs education. So why shouldn't she get it? Besides, educated women make capable, more responsible mothers."

He smiled. "That then is her career."

"No," I said at once. "Well, yes that is her career too," I added after some consideration. "I mean who is going to look after her children for her? She can fit in another career as well. She has a right to, of course."

The Man who was my conscience, made no response, if one were to discount the cynical expression on his face.

"Most women choose not to have a career," I said complacently.

"And why is that? Because of what they have been told from the start. Marriage. That is what they hear growing up. Marriage. That is what their sisters and cousins and aunts and parents drum in. Marriage. So that is what they talk of in their biology class, and what they think of during their psychology lecture. A career, a choice - independence - just isn't something that exists. So they put their heart into, into preparing for marriage. That hardly any of them think otherwise, is not something to be proud of."

"How long can a woman go on with her career, without getting married?" I asked.

"So a woman needs to get married but a man doesn't?"

"No, both do, of course."

"So a boy can decide when he wants to get married but a girl cannot?"

This time I made no response.

"Yes, I see. I see your logic in not educating girls to any extent worth mentioning. First, the age of receiving proposals would pass. Then, the number of bachelors she would find eligible and who would consider her suitable would diminish. And it's all useless, anyway, because she is never going to make a career of it."

"Well, of course she can have a career while married," I reiterated.

"As long as it does not affect you."

"How can anything my wife do, not affect me ?" I asked, amused.

"Exactly."



It was too hot a day to go shopping, but unfortunately that did not matter to my wife. It was a saturday; that was enough. A sultry night may be romantic but a sultry day is just lousy weather, I thought, as I wiped my brow with my handkerchief.

Why do women enjoy shopping so much? I once conducted a survey to predict the feasibility of a novel enterprise -- that of delivering monthly groceries to customers. I recall one woman who had emphatically said that she would have nothing to do with it, and that the venture would fail because women looked forward to going shopping: it would never do to have the things delivered to them. She had been dead right about our business' success.

My wife looked lovely. That was about the only redeeming feature of the damned sun. Far from bothering her, the heat rejuvenated her. Her hair, her skin glowed, and her gait was carefree and full of vitality:

’That undulation each way free; it taketh me'

I was about to whisper something to make her cheek glow a little more, when a salesboy came forward to offer us assistance.

"We are just looking around," I snapped.

"Oh, look at this handkerchief! It's beautiful. I must get it for you," she exclaimed.

I looked at the handkerchief. The designer name and the price brushed aside most of the thoughts I had been wanting to whisper.

"I don't need a handkerchief."

"Yes you do," she said, deftly taking my handkerchief out of my trouser pocket and putting it in her purse. "It's a gift from me."

A "gift" from her, I must clarify, always referred to things she bought for me and our son from her own money -- the money her parents had given to her on our wedding and which they gave, from time to time, on various felicitious occasions. Being fair-minded I did not begrudge this informal source of income.

Out on the streets, the heat felt more oppressive after the cool interior of the shop. I pulled out my newly-acquired face-cloth and held it before me. It looked so new and expensive and beautiful. I put the unused handkerchief back in my pocket.




It was close to midnight, as I drove through the deserted city streets. My car's interior, while not as luxurious as my living-room, was pleasantly elegant. For the second night in a row however, was I unable to enjoy the intoxication of expensive materials: beside me sat the Man who was my conscience.

Our dialogue from the night before neared its conclusion, more, I felt, due to mental fatigue on my part than any abiding reconciliation between our convictions.

"My inner voice told me that you might do something significant today," said the Man (it amused me that my conscience had an inner voice and I did not). "And seeing how you finally understand and accept the truth, I am sure you will."

I had called home from the office but my wife had not been there. Not wanting to be alone (again) in my living room with the Man who was my conscience, I had decided to drive around the city bazaars until my wife came home: somehow a dialogue with your conscience is more bearable while you were busy dodging pedestrians in Saddar.

I called home every half-hour for several hours until my cell phone whimpered and died. How was I to know now whether my wife was home or not? Should I just drive home? What if she was still not there? Alone again. In the living room. With Him. But it was midnight: she must be home by now. One call and I could drop off the Man at the old Edhi Orphanage and head home. I started peering out of the window for any open shop.

A garish video rental shop which seemed incapable of closing (and pompously aware of how many lives depended on it for sustenance) appeared in our path. I asked the Man who was my conscience to wait in the car and entered the video shop in search of a telephone. Walls laden with video cassettes stretched before me in a mile long corridor, and I realized my task more tedious than I had imagined.

Thankfully, I spotted two pay-phones a few steps ahead. Now I could call home and know for sure whether my wife was there. Two middle-aged ladies were using the phones. I stood quietly nearby and waited. Both were talking of clothes, complimenting and receiving compliments, discussing and disparaging. I was standing thus for ten minutes before I realized that they were talking to each other. I stared at them incredulously but they took no notice of me and continued to admire each other's clothes over the phone.

I moved on, walking faster and feeling physically more energetic as my mind grew tired. But no matter how fast I paced the corridor, I could not see the farther end. In fact I could not see either end. I slowed down voluntarily. This could take days; who knows, months. I must conserve my energy. I must also find something to eat. But where do you find food in a video rental shop? I looked at the chocolate bars and the other snacks that the children carried. They had come prepared.

There was something odd about these kids. Those who could walk by themselves were carried in their mother's arms; those who could walk with their mother's help were still cradled in the maternal lap. Government offices and huge corporations are, I suppose, not the only places where job security is a concern.

My gaze shifted from those forcibly stunted children to their mothers and I noticed a curious marking on their foreheads. Each married woman had a number on her forehead, ranging (as best I could estimate) from "1" to "7". The ready-for-Neelam-Ghar-newly-wed lady with an infant clutching her bodice had a neat "1" on her temple. Behind her, flipping through a catalogue of old Indian movies, was a matronly woman who came with a girl attached to each leg and a toddler fixed to her shoulder. She had a "3" smudged above her eyebrows. The pattern was clear. That I had never observed these numbers was not as lucid. Had dupattas and shawls and my sharifana shyness veiled these from my consciousness? Very, very unlikely.

As my gaze jumped from forehead to forehead I saw a familiar temple with curly wisps of overhanging hair. My wife was too engrossed in selecting a suitable "Geet-mala" to notice me. And there on her forehead was the terrible numeral. How I had not noticed it through four years of marriage (plus two of courtship) was incredible. Had I taken that "1" to be a unique beauty mark? Impossible. Had her curls cleverly hidden it all this while? No, No! I had simply never noted it before.

I pulled out my still unused handkerchief and moved towards my wife. It was clear what was to be done: I did not need the Man who was my conscience beside me anymore. I needed no confirmations or counsel. I would erase the gruesome number, I would somehow find the way out, and she and I would escape.

I lifted my handkerchief to my mouth to dab it with my tongue.

"Daddy, Daddy, let's go home." It was my son, tugging at my trousers. He looked tired, dehydrated, and unattended. Poor child. He must have been in the video shop since the sun set on this unending evening.

"I'm sleepy daddy. Will you tuck me in tonight?"

I looked at him in silence.

"And you can tell me a story too. I know all of mummy's stories by heart. You will tell me a story won't you daddy?"

I looked away from him into the distance. I saw a man wiping off the "2" on his wife's forehead with his saliva-wet thumb. I looked across at my wife . She was accepting a cassette over the counter.

I looked again at the distant couple. They were smiling at eachother as the man patted his wife's belly. On her forehead was now inked a smudgy "3".

"Come," I said, "let's get mummy to take you home and tuck you in." And I put the unused handkerchief back into my pocket.