Unlike me, my husband Nitin grew up in California. He came here when he was a little boy. So when I got married, I expected some cultural differences but nothing like the one that was in store.
Two of his uncles were the first to come here. They came in the mid 60s and started a family business, which became the anchor for the whole family. By the time he came here after the untimely death of his father, his extended family had already set root and was expanding. Though he still has some family back in India, where I grew up, he had a more American upbringing.
I joined him here after our marriage and did not take long to realize despite their outward appearance of Americanization, there was a strict hierarchy in the family rooted in the traditional in and outdated patriarchy so prevalent in India. The power resided with the men and they made the decision. Women of the family fell into three categories: praised and displayed for their beauty and elegance, valued and consulted for their family wealth and connections, or tolerated and maintained for their usefulness and service. Being curvy and average looking and coming from a modest family I quickly knew my place.
At first, everything was going so well and I was content with my role. My husband was still trying to find his footing with the business responsibilities and I was trying hard to fit in. I was nice and friendly to everyone. Did whatever anyone needed or asked: babysat for the kids, cooked for the family dinner, went shopping with the older women of the family, listened to the dating problems and relationship troubles of the people my age or younger. Most important of all, know the hierarchy and make sure to respect and do nothing to upset anyone. There is nothing worse for a newly married bride than the wrath of any of the powerful patriarchs.
The one in particular, I was told, never to show any form of disrespect was uncle Om. He was my husband’s mentor and filled in the role of father that he missed growing up. He was not the most powerful but most vengeful. He was known to make life difficult for anyone if things didn’t go his way: family members, employees in the business, rivals, and even the neighbors. He was more feared than respected. Unfortunately, Nitin did not see it that way. To him Om was his idol and can do nothing wrong. No matter what happened, he always had a way to explain it away. I soon learned the extent of his faith in Om.
To me Om was a totally different person. A predator constantly looking for the weakness in you. Being new to the family and the country and lacking the benefit of beauty or wealth, I was not in a strong position. Unfortunately for me I became the focus of his attention. He did not care how unwanted it might have been.
At first it was almost innocuous: lingering hugs, wandering hands, ambiguously suggestive comments, frequent alone time with me that was so carefully planned to look accidental. The discomfort I felt was subdued by my disbelief. Maybe I am just imagining things, I told myself.
Then it got more obvious: hands not only brushing but rubbing on protruding curves of my body, not averting his eyes when I caught him staring at my cleavage, queries about my skill about pleasing men. It was hard to sustain my sense of disbelief. I started to bring the topic up with Nitin. I was careful not to accuse Om directly. But every time I made it more clear, he was more certain that I was overreacting. He always dismissed my worry. “He is just being nice”. “It may be just a cultural difference. People here are more open about this sort of thing.”
Then it happened. It was one of those weekend big family dinners at Om’s place. I was asked to help with the cleanup afterwards. I was alone in the kitchen and I did not notice when he walked in. I was busy loading the dishwasher and looking inside in my bent down position. I suddenly felt his hand grab my hips and him pushing himself into my sari clad back arched upward with such force that my head bumped against the counter. I tried to pull his hands off me. But he was strong and pushed me and grabbed me and pushed me against the counter so hard that the dishwasher door slammed shut.
“You want this, so stop fighting,” I could hear him hiss in my ears. I was so scared. Not sure what his plan was, but luckily one of the little nephews walked in asking for more ice cream. He walked out of the kitchen.
I was shaken and upset mixed with anger. I looked for Nitin and told him I wanted to go home. I did not wait to reach home to tell him. I told him what happened in the car. He listened but at the end he was trying to find some excuse.
“Maybe he mistook me for someone else,” Nitin tried to explain.
“Who? I surely do not look like his wife”
“Well, from what you told me he did not see your face.”
“How can you not tell the difference and what about when he saw my face?”
“Well, you said he left you alone after that.”
“Only because the kid came in.”
“Well you neve know. I think he left because he knew he made a mistake.”
“But he did not say sorry or anything,” I knew he did not want to hear anything.
“Well, he does not have to. It was just a mistake.”
I did not say anything. I did not say it does not matter that he thought I was someone else. What he did was wrong. How can anyone support such behavior? But I knew he would not believe me and always take Om’s side.
I decided to stop going to his house. I came up with some excuse every time. As they say, prevention is better than cure. It caused problems for me. People started to spread gossip about my absence: she thinks she is better than us. But those were better than the risk of going to his house.
A few months passed and life felt normal again. People would occasionally ask me when I gave some excuse not to join family gatherings at his place.
Then it started again. Nitin told me Om was asking why he has not seen me for a while. How he was worried if I was doing ok. But when Om told Nitin he will come and visit us, Nitin felt too obliged to agree. Whatever I tried to tell him he would not listen.
“How can I say no. How can I not invite someone who has been taking care of me all my life. Do you know how disrespectful that is?”
I knew how he thought.
“Yes, but you know….”
“Know what?” Nitin interrupted.
“Nothing. Can you make sure you are there when he is around ok?” “Or what?”
“Nothing.”
Then it started again: occasional weekend brunches at our place or tea after workday. I was careful not to be alone. But it didn’t last. He dropped by in the middle of the day when I was alone. And this time there was not anyone to stop. I had to scream and shout to make him walk away.
That night I made it clear to Nitin.
“If you do not take this seriously and ask him to stop coming when I am alone, we will not stop. And you know what he wants,” I told him.
“Well you do not know that.”
“I am telling you.”
“Well, be nice to him.”
“What? You know he wants to…”
“It is not the end of the world. Maybe it will be easier if you do not fight.”
“Are you telling me…”
“Well, I have no problems with it. So what is your problem?”
“Really?”
“Really. He has done so much for me. I can at least do this for him.”
“But…”
“I told you I am fine with it. Be nice to him. Do not do anything to disrespect him. You are the wife of the family. You need to think of family first.”
It started to become clear. All this time I thought he did not believe me or understand. It was me who did not get it. Maybe everyone in the family knew.
After that night, I had no idea what to do. I could not leave my marriage. What could I do?
A few days later, Om dropped by unannounced in the middle of the day. When I did not pull his hands off as he grabbed me to pull me close to him, he was surprised.
“Did you talk to Nitin?” Om asked.
I looked at him but kept quiet
“You did. Right? What did he say?”
“To be nice.”
Om let go of me and laughed.
“So Arti, are you going to be nice?”
I just nodded.
“Then turn around and face the table.”
I turned around and before I knew it I found my face pressed against the dinner table. His right hand was holding my head and hair firmly and as I felt him lift my sari with his left.
“Are you going to be nice or fight?” he whispered in my ear as I heard the sound of unzipping.
I knew if I fought it only would make him happier.
That is the first time I decided not to fight.
But that won’t be the only time. Or the only man.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/nl5cic/shared_family_value_story_of_artis_initiation_fm