Seven Read online

  Praise for Seven

  Penetrating and subtle, Seven deftly explores loyalty in changing times, what it means and what you give up to be a part of a community, a marriage, and friendships. Sharifa is a sympathetic everywoman; her relationships fully realized and deeply felt in this immersive, absorbing portrait.

  — Eden Robinson, bestselling author of the Trickster trilogy

  [Seven’s] willingness to engage readers with this challenging, important subject matter is invaluable.

  — Booklist

  A brave and beautiful book.

  — Judy Rebick, author of Heroes in My Head

  Family secrets, loyalty, and betrayal lie at the heart of Seven. Delving into history can unearth deeper mysteries than one bargained for.

  — Zarqa Nawaz, author of Laughing All The Way to the Mosque

  A defiant and engrossing novel.

  — Sarah Schulman, author of Conflict is Not Abuse

  Doctor weaves sensitivity and hope into a gripping narrative. [Seven is] a soulfully-written book about a vexed cultural issue.

  — Masooma Ranalvi, founder of WeSpeakOut.org

  Praise for All Inclusive

  An ambitious, thematically voracious novel on love and the wounds we didn’t know we had.

  — Globe and Mail

  Her outstanding characterization and the depth of language establish the importance of Farzana Doctor’s writing. In her startling and evocative description of the lives of people in the tourist industry, All Inclusive is more than just a title.

  — Austin Clarke, Giller Prize–winning author of The Polished Hoe

  Ambitious, original, mysterious, sensual, All Inclusive is all that — and a terrific read to boot.

  — Toronto Star

  A rare, somewhat whimsical but vibrantly coloured toucan in a nest of Canadian starlings … All Inclusive is not your traditional Can Lit (capital C, capital L), and thank god for it.

  — Plentitude

  All Inclusive is a page turner, and Doctor is a deliciously evocative writer.

  — Literary Review of Canada

  In the worlds that Farzana Doctor creates, ordinary people are wondrous and complicated, and all these things that divide us — countries, professions, sexualities, genders, races — are mere distractions from what truly matters. Her stories ring true enough to think our world could be that way too. One can only hope.

  — Daily Xtra

  By turns funny, moving, thoughtful, and erotic, All Inclusive is a powerful meditation on life, love, and loss. Farzana Doctor spins a passionate, page-turning tale about the sometimes invisible ties that bind. This is brilliant storytelling.

  — Terry Fallis, author of The Best Laid Plans

  Farzana Doctor’s original, provocative new novel seduces (and challenges) readers on every page. All Inclusive is Doctor’s best — and sexiest! — work yet.

  — Angie Abdou, author of The Bone Cage

  Doctor must be commended for her ability to render a disembodied “meandering whoosh” sympathetic.

  — Quill & Quire

  Praise for Six Metres of Pavement

  Ismail Boxwala, an ultimately good man haunted by a horrible mistake, provides the focal point of Doctor’s moving second novel in which she examines with crystalline clarity the plight of this gentle, middle-aged Indian immigrant living in Toronto.

  — Publishers Weekly

  The characters are refreshingly genuine … Doctor skillfully plays with concepts of motion, migration, and movement, both physical and emotional.

  — Globe and Mail

  If you’re looking for believable characters, look no further than Farzana Doctor’s fiction. She has a gift for reality-based situations and conveys anxiety and passion in a story that turns into a real page-turner.

  — NOW

  With a quiet, inward-looking analysis of Ismail’s life, Six Metres of Pavement asks how mourning can make way for grief when it’s cemented by guilt, and if memories can be defanged. Simmering in the background is a remarkable portrait of immigrant Toronto.

  — This

  Novels don’t often spring sudden tears from me. This story did it several times, and never with tawdry tugs at the heartstrings. The book cuts deep, to the core of love, universal need and our responsibility to others.

  — Xtra! Toronto

  It’s enough to hope that Doctor would consider a sequel to this tender portrait of strangers finding community in each other. It would be worth the wait.

  — Lambda Literary Review

  I laughed and cried as I read Six Metres of Pavement and followed Ismail and Celia — endearing, brave, and foolish characters who have to live with the irreparable and irreversible. Farzana Doctor blends cross-cultural empathy with wisdom, and shows us paths to wholeness. Read this delightful, warm guide to remaking and choosing your family.

  — Shauna Singh Baldwin, author of What the Body Remembers, The Tiger Claw, and We Are Not in Pakistan

  A sensitively written story about the complexities of human relationships, with the added twist of the immigrant experience. A warmly felt portrait of an unusual but successful remaking of a family.

  — Sudbury Star

  SEVEN

  SEVEN

  FARZANA

  DOCTOR

  Copyright © Farzana Doctor, 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Publisher: Scott Fraser | Acquiring editor: Kathryn Lane | Editor: Shannon Whibbs

  Cover designer: Sophie Paas-Lang

  Cover image: istock.com/tunart

  Printer: Marquis Book Printing Inc.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Seven / Farzana Doctor.

  Names: Doctor, Farzana, author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190204478 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190204486 | ISBN 9781459746398 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459746404 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459746411 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8607.O35 S48 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.

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  For Nani

  Contents

  ONE: April 2016, Mumbai

  TWO: August 2015, New York City

  THREE

  FOUR: January 1866, South Bombay

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN: Bombay, 1870

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN: Bombay, 1877

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN: Bombay, 1883

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN: Bombay, 1889
<
br />   SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN: Bombay, 1890

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY: Bombay, 1891

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO: Bombay, 1898

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE: Bombay, 1899

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT: Bombay, 1900

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE: Bombay, 1901

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR: Bombay, 1902

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT: Bombay, 1903

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE: Bombay, 1905

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR: Dholka, 1911

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN: Bombay, 1911

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE: Bombay, 1915

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR: Bombay, 1919

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN: Bombay, 1920

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY: Ahmedabad, 1922

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE: FGM Symposium, April 2026, New York City

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ONE

  April 2016, Mumbai

  I take a cautious sip. Tasnim Maasi pours half her cup into her saucer and sucks the tea down in one long, loud slurp. She pulls up her orna, which slid from her oiled hair to her shoulders, tucking the gauzy fabric around an ear to keep it in place.

  It is going to happen today; this afternoon. Maasi’s life is going to change irrevocably. Will she think that her favourite niece has turned traitor?

  I cannot stop this moving train. What good will it do to announce the crash? After all, Maasi can’t get off at the next stop. Instead I sit on the edge of my beloved aunt’s couch, scalding tea burning my tongue.

  Maasi appraises my full cup, raises her right eyebrow. I shake my head.

  “Still too hot.”

  “You should do it like me.” Her lips upturn into a mischievous smile as she empties the rest of her tea into her saucer, and a wisp of cardamom steam rises in front of her face. With a slight tremor, she lifts the saucer to her lips. “See?” she says proudly, as though chai drinking is a competition. She doesn’t spill a single drop.

  “All right.” I tip my teacup to my saucer and chai dribbles onto her glass-topped coffee table. I pat the spill with a tissue. “Sorry.”

  “Anything wrong, Sharifa? You are quiet today.”

  I meet her gaze. Her eyes are a chesnut brown, and shinier than they used to be. These are my eyes, too, and the eyes of my mother, my cousin-sisters, and our daughters.

  “Haa, Maasi. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  The doorbell tangs and, the coward I am, I am relieved. I inhale courage and wishfully think that I can be loyal to Maasi and my mother, my cousin-sisters, and our daughters all at the same time.

  Later, when I share my day with my husband, Murtuza, he will ask me, “And what about you? What’s being loyal to you?” I will not know the answer, won’t even be able to make sense of the question.

  Maasi rises, but I gesture for her to stay seated. Instead, I stand to unlatch the door.

  TWO

  August 2015, New York City

  While I scan the sale racks, Zee bumps around the nearby plus-size section yelling, “Mom — this one!” every minute or so. I suppose little kids think all ladies’ sizes are the same. I yell back, “Thanks, but no!” The two of us are probably driving the sales-woman crazy with our bellowing.

  I show her a polka-dotted dress with cap sleeves, the sort of thing I might have worn in the classroom on a hot September day. Its asymmetrical hem is whimsical, yet age-appropriate. Most years, I’ve done this shopping while in countdown-to-Labour-Day mode, both anticipating and dreading my return to work at Morrison High School. But I gave my resignation two weeks ago, and the year stretches ahead like a flat and deserted highway.

  Last year, when Murtuza and I first considered spending his academic sabbatical in India, I applied for a much-needed unpaid leave while he investigated Mumbai teaching gigs. The same week my request was declined, he received an opportunity to teach the graduate course he’s been designing in his mind for years. Lenore, my vice-principal and mentor, suggested I quit, recover from my burnout, and work for her educational consulting business after Murtuza’s sabbatical. So here we are — Zee and I — searching for a dress I can take on our trip to India.

  “Pretty,” Zee assesses, pushing a strand of her short hair behind her ear. Recently she’s begun to have opinions about the clothing I set out for her each day. Last week she rejected half of my choices, so today I’ve encouraged her to make her own selections. She’s wearing a yellow top with an emerald skirt and aquamarine socks, which doesn’t look as bad as it sounds. Me, I’ve matched my beige blouse to a pair of brown shorts. My sandals are a shade in between.

  I try on the dress, Zee’s appraising eyes upon me. She cocks her head, her bangs falling into her face. “Mom, it fits, it looks good. But buy it in red, not black.” Her tone is slightly mocking, like a makeover show host’s. The sales clerk rushes to fetch one, taking orders from a girl just turned seven.

  Later, on our way to the food court to share an order of Wong’s lemon chicken, Zee stops me at Forever 21. I protest but change my mind when I notice one of my students, Farah, behind the register. She just graduated, and used to walk the hallways like a fashion model. A few months ago, Principal Pereira stopped to scold her for showing too much cleavage. I’d disagreed with the judgment but couldn’t contradict Pereira. Farah reached into her backpack to layer a sweater over her blouse, but it was off again by the time she reached my classroom.

  “Mom, look at these!” Zee points out a ten-dollar rack of frilly skirts. “Can I get one? You can get one, too, and we can match!” I call Farah over and she helps us find a size zero that fits loosely over Zee’s straight hips. Not even their largest size, a fourteen, can pass over mine.

  “I just bought a size twelve dress at JC Penney,” I complain.

  “Yeah, our sizes are super small. Sorry.” Farah shrugs.

  “You can still get yours, Zee. It’s a good price.”

  “No,” she pouts, “not if you can’t wear a matching one.”

  “We’ll look for something while we’re in India,” I console, glad that my daughter still wants to look like me, at least sometimes.

  In the evening, Murtuza and I meet on the couch for the married person’s evening ritual: TV. Along with a nightly bowl of microwave popcorn, we’ve been putting away two episodes of The Mindy Project after Zee is in bed. We guffaw and cringe in the same places; we are diasporic South Asian children of immigrants communing over the embarrassing life of a diasporic South Asian child of immigrants.

  While the credits roll, Murtuza leans over, kisses my neck, and says, “Shall we turn it off now, or watch another episode?”

  “Sure, Murti, we can turn it off,” I say, sensing his preference. After all, it is Saturday and 9:00 p.m. I’d prefer to hit play, to be distracted by someone else’s awkward world, but I appreciate my husband’s good-natured and consistent initiative-taking. My friends and I talk about our lacklustre sex lives and waning libidos, and I feel like I’m the lucky one amongst us. At least we can say we are still doing it, rather than being in couples’ therapy because we aren’t. Or breaking up because we aren’t. Or having extra-marital affairs because we aren’t.

  I’d never cheated in my life, neither on a test nor a time sheet. When my naturopath directed me to eliminate sugar, dairy, wheat, and caffeine last year t
o improve my immune system’s functioning, I followed her instructions, to the letter, for sixty days.

  How to make sense of the affair, then? It was just over four years ago, when Zee was three. Ian, a guy I once slept with, friend-requested me on Facebook. I recall experiencing a twinge of something, a flutter in my belly I could have interpreted as a prescient warning. I brushed away the sensation and thought, Nah, it’s just Facebook, and it’s been ages since we last saw each other. Plus, I’d heard from a friend in common that he’d moved to England. I thought we’d share a few likes, perhaps a little lurking. No problem.

  At the time, I couldn’t admit to myself that it was cheating. There were no secret liaisons in two-and-half-star motels we’d paid for in cash. No late-night phone calls. No sexy photos. Leave it to me to have an affair without ever really having an affair.

  I layered on a thick foundation of denial until Murtuza found out. On a cool autumn evening, I returned home from Fresh Food Mart, lugging two heavy totes. When I saw his pained expression, I dropped the groceries, my fingers refusing to pretend that things were normal. Oranges rolled across the floor and I scrambled to collect them, glad for the small diversion of runaway citrus.

  I’d left my computer on, my account open. Normally he wouldn’t have used my laptop, but he’d forgotten his at his office and needed to order a book online. That’s what he told me, anyway. I hope it was nothing more than that. I heard somewhere that eighty percent of betrayed spouses know when something is amiss and ambivalently search for evidence to the contrary. I don’t like to think about Murtuza being a part of that statistical majority.

  A part of me was self-righteous and indignant about the breach of privacy (“What were you doing snooping around on my Facebook account, anyway?”), but that fell flat when he looked at me beseechingly. “Why?” he asked, tears streaming down his cheeks. I wanted to dry his tears before they dripped off his chin onto the floor.

  I sputtered a denial, “Nothing happened!”

  He picked up my laptop and read aloud the latest message I’d sent to Ian. I went silent, and Murtuza continued reading, his voice growing louder, my indiscreet sentences to Ian booming and echoing off the kitchen tiles. I still said nothing, couldn’t form words, imagined Murtuza leaving me, our marriage ending over something so stupid. I felt like a failure, to both my husband and daughter.