Fousiya,
married at 13 and forsaken after a month, has only one grievance. "I don't mind him marrying again. But I wish he would send me some money every month."

They surrounded us within minutes.

All were united by a common grief. All had similar tales to tell. All felt the same burning anger against the society that lets men throw them out like used curry leaves.

"Look at her," said a middle-aged woman pushing a girl of around 15 forward, "He married her, lived with her for two months and said 'talaq' thrice over. What should we do to such bastards?"

Here, in Calicut's Mugadhar, you will find hundreds of divorced Muslim women. Many are barely out of their teens, but own at least one child and no income. Few have lived with their husbands for more than two months. Hardly any know why they were abandoned.

For the families along this coastal strip, marriage is hope. Marriage means mehr, the sum that a male gives his would-be wife. A welcome gift to a starving family.

Consequently, the area is among the first stops for Muslim males in urgent need of short-term wives. Bridegrooms come from even the Gulf, a proof attested by the many Arabi kuttikal (Arab children) you find here.

Fousiya (name changed), the 26-year-old divorcee who opened up to us, is one of the lucky ones. Though she was married for 11 years to a Saudi national -- she lived with him for slightly over a month -- she doesn't have any children. Here's her story:

I remember that I was very frightened on my marriage day. Everyone had told me it was a good thing to happen, that I was lucky to have such a fine man for husband. He was an Arabi (Arab), you see, and he had paid my family a huge amount, Rs 2,500, as mehr.

I was 13 then.

My puthiappla (bridegroom) was 36. At least that is what my family had been told. But it didn't bother me. I hardly knew what I was getting into. I don't know whether my parents minded. Even if they did, what could we do? It was too good an offer to miss.

Bappa (father) took me to the mosque for my nikah. I was tense and clung to my father till the last possible moment. Yes, I was scared of my husband. He was much older to me. Worse, we couldn't even converse! He knew no Malayalam and I didn't understand a word of his Arabic.

We were staying in a big house as paying guests. It was through the members of that family that we communicated. Puthiappla and I stayed there for one month and five days before he left for Saudi. He gave me Rs 5,000 and told me to find a house to buy. We had even gone and seen a few. He said he would send me the money soon and would take me to Saudi as soon as he got me a passport. That was the last I saw of him.

Puthiappla sent me three letters. Loving letters, they were. He had got those written by some Malayalee (Keralite) who worked with him. The letters asked my family to look after me well. Money should not matter in doing that. He said he would pay them when he got back. But he never returned.

The letters had stopped. I kept writing to him but there was no reply. This went on for years. I would write asking the same questions: When are you coming back? If you don't intend to, can you at least send me money? There never was any reply.

He was a good man. I know that. When we lived together he was very affectionate. He changed only after he returned to Saudi. Something must have happened there.

My parents told me not to write anymore. They said he wouldn't return. "How long can you keep on writing like this," they asked me. Still, I kept on writing without their knowing. Finally, after 11 years, bappa wrote to puthiappla. The reply was prompt. A draft for Rs 5,000 arrived. And with it a letter. It was very brief and final.

"Njan Fousiyaaye moonnu talaqqum cholli. (I have divorced Fousiya)."

After that... I am surviving. Bappa doesn't earn much and we are a large family. So it is very tough. No, no... I don't want to marry again. One was more than enough. But if my puthiappla comes back I will go with him. I am only 26, and he is my husband, isn't he?

I don't mind him marrying again if he wants, but I wish he would send me some money every month. Just Rs 500 will do. Is that too much?

The jihad within
Back to the series home page.

Tuesday, April 27, 1999
Palathody Abdul Rasheed, ostracised for learning a 'Hindu' dance form, believes "Kathakali doesn't have religion. It isn't Hindu or Muslim or Christian."

Wednesday, April 28, 1999
Tasni Banu, abandoned by neighbours and family for marrying outside the nikah ceremony, is still angry. "I haven't abused Islam. It's they who did that."

Thursday, April 29, 1999
V P Suhara is a feminist and crusader for Muslim women's right. "Can you show me where the Quran allows a man to throw his wife out at will?" she demands.

Friday, April 30, 1999
E M Abdul Rahman is the new chairman of the National Development Front. The police will tell you that the Front is the most dreaded Islamic extremist organisation in Kerala. But Rahman defends his organisation. "We are not fundamentalists. We are a secular party."

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