“The ceiling was crushing us, so we made skylight.” – Augusten Burroughs. 

The dark night of Bihar fills the decorated vase of our city, dotting the charcoal outlines of small houses and buildings with dim droplets of light. The wind blows across the streets, Allah stroking his paint brush on a canvas, gently picking up pieces of littered trash and teasing through the hairs of its citizens going about their way and the hanging articles of clothing drying off in the air. Now, there is silence, yet there too is noise. The claps as the shirts on clotheslines hit against each other, and the singing of birds and slamming car doors harmonizing like melting honey on a hot day. Listening closely, hidden in the fabrics of my shirt and the skeletal structure that is my ribcage, I hear the sound of my heart beating. Pumping, drumming—it isn’t slow, but a rhythm written with notes of panic and uncertainty. 

I stand with my bare toes digging in between the strands of grass brushing against my ankles. Then I walk to the rows of clothes hanging from thick wires, tied to long pieces of wood hammered into the soil of the land exactly fourteen feet apart. With push of the wind the shirts, dresses, and pants of various sizes and colors reach out with their desperate arms to my face, trained to remain as monotonous as possible.  

I let my hands touch theirs and tug, pulling them off the wire and into my small arms. I repeat the motions the very same way I saw my mother do it. Growing up alongside her, I aided her in the daily work of our house, yet here under the peering eyes of burning stars I do it for myself and the man who is my husband. Alone, folding the articles of clothing, piling them into the basket waiting for more and more to be added, my mind focuses only on the perfection of the creases and the precise divide between what is his and mine. That divide leaves me with little to nothing, but I don’t mind. This would be the last time my fingers ever should touch what is his, the last that my wrists will be cuffed in his shackles. 

Inhale. The scents of tea brewing in homes and the dust of tired shoes, and the putrid smell of his musk from inside the house move my feet subconsciously in its direction. A foot into the door reveals dirty tiles, coated with mud and shattered remains of glass vessels that once held alcohol at around the living room. 

It is a shabby living room in an even uglier house. A stained table covered in crumbs of sloppy meals stands next to an old couch with a man drooling away on its cushions. The exhausted lines of his face smooth out with his eyelids in slumber. This is my husband. The reek of vomit lathers on the skin of his face and clothes that cling to him through sweat. I walk away as the tempo and beats of his chest rise and fall, painting a path through a small dimly lit hallway to the entrance of a messy room, and crouch down beneath an unkempt bed standing next to a night stand. 

In the dark area below the mattress, a small blue bag holds spare clothing, non-perishable food, and a cellphone with buttons printed on its body.  

I hold the phone in my hand, letting my thumb hover over the digits, remembering what my sister whispered into my ear before I was dragged away by this man’s hand and miles away into what would be my new “home.” 

When you need me to make a skylight, call me, and I will save you from that crushing ceiling. 

I can still feel the light tickle of her pomegranate lips painted in celebration of my marriage. I dial her number and wait for the tone to end and open the door for her voice. 

“Hello?” asked a voice, smooth like silk and warm like freshly baked bread. 

“Rashima, it’s me, Ambika. Please, make a skylight for me.” 

“My baby sister,” she responds wistfully. She then turns serious, “I’ll make my way there.” 

I sit silently on my knees as I hear the tone close. I wrap my fingers around it, lowering it back into the bag, hearing it drop into the rest of its contents. My shoulders relax and my back straightens. I am at peace, with hope, with certainty. Breathing in a steady pace, I can hear the songs of the city, and the yawn of the man as he scratches the back of neck. His presence booms like drum behind my frame. 

“Who was that?” he asks, the words demanding an answer. 

“N-no one,” I whimper as he stomps his way towards where I sit. He slaps the bag from my hand and stares at the screen, lighting the angered creases of his face riddled with misshapen beard shavings. 

“Fucking liar! Who was it you called?” he booms, yanking my arm and dragging me off the floor. He slams my small body into a wall. 

“Who was it?” He strikes my face, forcing it so the left. The blow leaves a painful sting on my tender cheek, with hot tears beginning to surface up and spilling down. 

“I’m asking you as question!” He pulls my shirt, forcing my eyes to stare at those irate pools of acid and nowhere else. “Who the fuck was that?” 

He throws me to the ground again. My sight shifts to various views every second as my husband drops me here and there like a doll. I stare at spilled clothes on the tiles and empty cans stacked at random places, all blurry behind tears. I want him to stop. It hurts; it hurts so much. 

“You whore! If you keep defying me, I’ll kill you!” I watch as he pulls back his foot, thinking of nothing but leaving. I barely even notice the tips of my fingers find a vase, grip onto it and launch it towards his face. I yell as if to speed it up. I am so angry. I just want to go home. 

The yells and screams combust in the small house. I run out, my bag slung over my shoulder, my bare feet leading me through the hallways with dents and invisible images of abuse and turmoil. I leave it all behind along with the aroma of alcohol and pain. My lungs wheeze gallons of air as I sprint away, the cries of that man fading away.  

I run across the fields of concrete and dirt, with houses staring along the path, the dark night engulfing me. Images of the chipped pieces of glass falling and blood seeping from his face as his hand reach up in automatic defense, the bruises on my shoulders, waist and face, find their way into my mind again and again as I skim across the lights that pop up at every block and corner. Every step that lands on the ground releases a day of the past three months’ worth of repressed emotions, fears, and doubts. I am free. 

At the next corner, I notice a car rushing in my direction, its headlights burning through the oil of the night, led by the hands of a woman leaning her head out the window as the wind picks up her long dark hair.  

“Ambika, it’s me, Rashima!” I hear her yell. 

I slow to a stop, recognizing the shortness of my breath and the adrenaline that pumps through the complex system of my organism, and climb into the blue Suzuki, beaten down yet still cared for. I sit down on the hard-grey passenger seat, feeling the Rashima’s arms wrap around me in a hug, bringing security and love with the first gentle contact I have received in what seems like a lifetime. 

“It’s ok, it’s over.” She whispers into my ear, her hair tickling my face as I stare out the window and down the darkened streets. 

I sob.