"This feels right," Neha Gupta thought to herself as she lay in bed in her lover Ismail Dadjo's arms. The tall, dark and handsome, forty-something Togolese Muslim stud was everything that she could ever want in a man. Unlike Miss Gupta's late husband Amit, Ismail didn't beat her or berate her, and instead he was charming, passionate, and a kindly man at the end of the day. So what if he works at Loblaw's as a clerk? Money certainly isn't everything.
Ismail stirred in his sleep, and Miss Gupta gently caressed her African Muslim lover's bearded face. Ismail was such a handsome man. He always spoke respectfully of his French ex-wife Josephine and their adult daughter Nicolette, both of whom lived in Paris, France. Ismail was a man of the world, and he treated the women in his life like queens. Miss Gupta prayed for such a man, and at last he was in her life. She was not about to let him go...
Miss Gupta felt pity for numerous women from her country who were married to men who saw them as possessions, and little more. In India, there were still many battles to fight in the war for women's rights. The high divorce rate and skyrocketing rates of domestic abuse in Indian households had a lot to do with clashes between men and women over women's rights in the West. A lot of young Indian women born and raised in America, Canada and the United Kingdom choose to marry non-Indian men, and who could blame them?
"Bitch, you will obey me, I don't care if you make more money than I do, I am your husband," Amit screamed at Neha, during their last argument. That fateful day started ordinarily enough for Neha Gupta and her husband Amit. Neha had come home from her Nursing job at the Civic Hospital. She had several nurses aides working for her in her capacity as head nurse, and most of these young women and men were fellow University of Ottawa alumni. Neha loves her job...and despised her home life.
"Amit, please, not this again, I am sorry if the curry is not to your liking," Neha said softly. After pulling a ten hour shift at the hospital, she came home and cooked for her husband. Amit, who drove a cab for Blue Line Taxi, came home, pissed off after a long day of chauffeuring random people all over the City of Ottawa, Ontario. The short, taciturn, middle-aged Bengali Indian patriarch was already in a foul mood by the time he got home, and his wife's nonchalant behavior didn't do anything to relieve him.
"You're like a lot of women in our community, my dear Neha, you think that because you are more educated and more money then you're better than men, well, in India and everywhere else, men rule, and women serve," Amit said angrily. Neha rolled her eyes but wisely held her tongue. There was no use in arguing with her irate and quarrelsome husband. When Amit got into one of those foul moods, he was likely to get violent and she didn't want that at all.
"Amit, I apologize, I know you had a rough day, so did I, now, please, eat," Neha said softly, and she pulled Amit's chair for him, like the lady of the house is expected to do for her man in their culture. Amit sat down and took another bite of the curry which his wife Neha prepared, and shook his head. When Neha took her place at his right hand side, he looked at her coldly. Neha put on a brave smile, and Amit glared at her. What the fuck was going on inside the tall, fat bitch's head?
"You need to lose weight, Neha, you don't seem to notice it because you're almost six feet tall, but you've gotten bigger and your butt is huge," Amit said coldly. He sipped his drink, and watched as Neha's lovely face twisted with pain. The tall, downright Amazonian gal from West Bengal, India, had always been a proud one. Indeed, Neha was a beauty queen when Amit met her back in India, and she gave up her dreams of modeling to be his wife. Back then, Neha was a proper wife. Moving to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, changed Neha for the worst, as far as Amit was concerned...
