The Husband is forthcoming in Djinnology: An Illuminated Compendium of Spirits and Stories from the Muslim World (Chronicle).

Beypore, India, 1866

On the morning of her fiftieth birthday, Bibi woke to the sound of her husband chewing loudly next to her in bed. Neither of them knew it was Bibi’s birthday, born as she was without a birth certificate, but it was to be a special day anyway because for the first time since their wedding, they would be receiving guests.

Bibi soaked basmati rice and orange lentils in copper bowls, stacked sweet samosas crammed with shredded coconut onto her best platters, and chilled glass jugs in cold water before filling them with green, salty lassi. Special silver plates had been purchased from a widow in the next village. Bibi’s husband had transported them back to their home.

Their pistachio-green bungalow sat at the edge of a mango orchard. Bright-orange garlands of marigold hung near the entrances. Bibi had woven the flowers herself; such was the occasion. Two more garlands waited on the dining table, ready to adorn the necks of the couple who would be arriving by train from Tirur later that afternoon. Bibi’s husband would meet them at the station with a wagon to bring them and their suitcases to the bungalow.

The guests were two of her childhood friends from the village by the sea. Bibi had moved up in the world: now she lived even closer to the ocean, next to a less seaweed-strewn stretch of beach. Bibi rubbed her round cheeks with freshly ground turmeric root and oil, as she had done the day before her wedding. She admired the henna patterns she had drawn on the palm of her right hand. But her fingers tingled with such excitement that the pallu of her green and pink sari escaped her grip over and over again as she tried to arrange the pleats neatly around her waist.

Amina and Arif had married around the time of Bibi’s first wedding. They still lived in the village that Bibi had fled after her first husband’s funeral. Bibi had found love and a new life in a different fishing village. She had met her new husband one early spring evening while bathing in the ocean. She had shrieked when she had first seen him. He had been sniffing around the pile of clothes she had piled neatly next to a coconut tree, sifting through her garments.

“Hey, you! Leave my things alone,” she had wailed from between the waves. But the mysterious creature had run away with her sari blouse, and a naked Bibi had staggered onto the beach, arms clamped across her chest, knees awkwardly knocking as she had tried to conceal her womanhood. The creature had scampered between the coconut trees, dragging her blouse and frolicking, pleading with her to give chase. So she had. It was the very first day that she had emerged from the house after four months of ritual mourning. And this—this felt like destiny. A dark and playful stranger had chosen her, and she could have sworn that she had been too busy praying for the repentance of her deceased husband to even think about asking Allah for a new man.

Bibi had skipped after the creature as he had dragged her sari blouse through the sand. She had chased him between thick tree trunks and jumped over vines that had scratched her smooth, brown skin. Bibi hadn’t cared. She had been lost in the moment, giggling like a schoolgirl. The pair had collapsed on the sand and lain cheek to cheek, huffing and puffing and laughing. The sky had turned black. Bibi had pulled the first brightly colored sari she had worn in months over their bodies.

Bibi told anyone who would listen, “It was love at first sight. When you know, you know.” To the young women who sold marigolds by the temple, she would say, “When you put aside expectations of how you think your perfect spouse will look, smell, and act, that’s when you’ll find true happiness.”

Her second wedding had been a small affair, as was the custom for a widow: only two fisherwomen to bear witness, and an imam to officiate the union. Her first husband’s death, caused by choking on a fish bone, had rattled her. She was relieved that her second husband refused to eat spined creatures of any kind.

By the time the guests pulled up to the house in the wagon, it was filled with the aroma of Bibi’s cooking. Biryani, idli, masala dosa, and three kinds of daal were arranged on the table. Bibi pushed a serving spoon into a platter of pilau rice scattered with strands of saffron and topped with flaked almonds and plump raisins.

“Come in, come in!” Bibi said, standing at the entrance, two garlands bouncing in her hands. “You made such a long journey. I’m so glad you found Babu. I was worried you would walk past him at the train station. He can be too quiet for his own good.”

“But where was he… we weren’t sure?” said Arif.

“Well, you got here, so everything worked out perfectly,” replied a grinning Bibi. She laughed and ushered her guests over the threshold. They ducked to receive the floral necklaces. “Now be careful and don’t bend over,” Bibi said, patting the marigolds against Amina’s bosom. “Sometimes Babu gets carried away and likes to nibble.”

She showed the silent couple to the table, where she lifted cloths and plates to reveal the fragrant feast. She had expected at least a few compliments about her house and her cooking. But when she turned back to look at the pair, their eyes were as white as coconuts and as wide as tea plates. “Yes, yes,” said Bibi, “I made all this food for you!” She watched their eyes grow wider as Babu trotted into the house and sat by the door to catch his breath. “Very special guests have come to meet my very special husband. Now please, won’t you sit?”

Bibi stroked her husband’s hair and picked strands of hay from his beard, flicking them into the air. “I should have made a garland for you,” she said, and gave him a peck on the cheek. She picked up a cloth sack that sat near the entrance, hoisted the burlap over her shoulder, and walked to the table with Babu at her heels.

Babu settled into his usual position at the head of the table. Bibi emptied the cloth sack directly onto the tablecloth in front of him and poured him a glass of green lassi. Arif stared at the food. Amina shook her head. “I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to stay tonight,” she said.

“Arre, what talk is this?” said Bibi. “Chup karo! You only just got here. Babu helped me prepare the guest room for you. How many husbands help their wives with such chores, eh?” She dished out a puddle of orange daal onto Arif’s plate.

He looked at Amina, who was mouthing something slowly. “This is enough!” he said. The pair turned their heads and rudely stared at Babu. Babu looked up from his hay pile and let out a faint baaah.

“What do you think, Amina? I did good, eh?” Bibi said, and giggled. “For an old woman like me, I am so lucky.” Amina coughed. Bibi handed her a cup of lassi to clear her throat.

Babu didn’t speak. He chewed and grunted and eventually spit brownish wads onto the floor. A long silence followed the expulsion of the last chunk of cud, and then a burp, for extra flourish. “Oh ho, Babu!” Bibi sighed. “This is why I gave you the big napkin.” She shook her head and looked at Amina. “I never understood how husbands are always so disgusting. How do we cope, eh?”

Amina and Arif moved food around their plates. “Eat, Arif. Eat,” Bibi insisted. Arif scooped fingerfuls of daal into his mouth and talked with his mouth full, the lentils muffling his voice as he said, “We have to go.” He glared at his wife, and Amina stood and walked toward the shoes she had left by the front door. Babu had nibbled on the leather soles on his way in.

“Oh bhai! But I haven’t given you masala tea and samosas yet!” Bibi cried, clutching her dupatta to her chest. “You must stay. Babu, take them to the divan. What’s that? Yes, I can see it, too. They are very tired.”

Babu excused himself from the table and began to clear up the spit wads from the floor. He cocked his head and looked at the guests through long, curved eyelashes. Bibi nudged him in the direction of the divan and their guests followed. Arif sat on the small chair closest to the door. “Not there, Arif,” Bibi said. “That’s Babu’s chair.”

In the kitchen, ginger-scented puffs of steam condensed on Bibi’s round face as she stewed black tea in a steel pot with cardamom and slivers of unpeeled ginger root. She arranged sweet samosas on a silver plate and carried the treats to the guests, who were sitting in silence.

Babu was still chewing. “I feel so lucky,” Bibi said. She handed the samosas to Amina and Arif and placed cups of hot tea on the table. “I never thought I could have a husband who is so quiet, so loving.”

Bibi poured tea into a silver bowl and held it to Babu’s mouth. He puckered his lips, unfurled a thick tongue, and slurped the tea. Bibi stroked her husband’s head. “Tell him about your business, Arif,” Bibi said, nodding her head. “Babu is very interested in the import-export trade.”

“Really? I mean, I really think we should be going,” Arif said. He placed his teacup on the table and stood. Bibi walked over and gently pushed him back down into the chair. “Babu can take you to the station anytime, but there is no train until tomorrow,” she said quietly.

What did it matter what her husband looked like? So what if he didn’t speak the same tongue? So what if he didn’t eat the same food? Could they not see that she was happy? Did a woman’s contentment mean nothing? Bibi crossed and uncrossed her arms. She stood to refill Arif’s teacup, pouring from the pot until it reached the brim and spilled into the trembling man’s saucer. “I said, tell him about your business.”

Arif explained to Bibi that he bought long-grain rice from a distant village, transported it by donkey to Tirur, and sold it at twice the price. “No, tell him,” Bibi said, pointing her chin in Babu’s direction. Arif turned to Babu, opened his mouth, and closed it.

Babu scratched his face. “That means he is very impressed,” Bibi said. She turned to Amina. “But with all that hard work your husband does, I bet he doesn’t have much time for you, not the way my husband has time to cuddle and play with me.” Amina nodded silently.

Bibi sipped her tea and told them about the beginnings of her love affair. The night of the beach encounter, after Babu had licked her cheek and disappeared into the bush, Bibi had knelt on the sand and prayed to Allah that she be blessed with a spouse as playful and affectionate as the creature she had danced with at sunset. Her first husband had been a debt collector with a capricious demeanor and chronic bowel troubles. Sometimes the gas escaped from his mouth, other times it emerged from the rear end. Either way, Bibi said, she felt that her life had been engulfed in a constant miasma of stink.

The very next day, Bibi’s prayers had been answered. She had spotted Babu at the grain market. Her hair had still been dripping wet from that morning’s ablutions—an indecent, besharam way in which to leave the house, she knew. Mother had warned against it ever since Bibi was a young girl. “Wet hair attracts djinn,” Amma had said. “If a girl walks outside with wet hair, especially beneath trees and especially at Maghreb, the djinn will sniff you out and follow you home.”

At the market, Bibi had let the thin pink dupatta slip from her head to reveal the glistening locks beneath. She had wandered through the bazaar in her rose-pink kameez and had spotted Babu’s head peering at her from between two burlap sacks. His nostrils had quivered as he caught Bibi’s scent. His eyes had tracked her as she moved between mountains of powdered spices. She had known it was him instantly: that solid frame, those long, thick eyelashes. He had been excited to see her again.

“Two pounds of chapati flour,” she had said to the old man sitting at Babu’s side. She had eyed Babu as the man poured flour into a cloth bag and held the bag out for Bibi to take. “You want him?” he had said, looking from Bibi to Babu and back to Bibi again. “If you want him, you can have him.” The man had jiggled the bag and pointed to the coins in Bibi’s hand.

“Sometimes love really is that simple,” Bibi sighed. “You wouldn’t believe how easily true love can fall into your lap.” Amina listened with parted lips. “The very next week, we were married in that mango orchard,” Bibi said, pointing out beyond the open door, where a golden sun was melting into the mango trees. “We built this house with money my first husband had stashed. Sorry I couldn’t invite you to the wedding, but you understand these things. That is the custom for a widow. Small wedding. No fuss.”

Arif nodded his head. Amina stared at the floor.

It would be dark soon, and Babu liked to take a leisurely stroll before bedtime. “Helps him digest,” Bibi explained, patting her belly. She stacked the teacups on a tray, carried them to the kitchen, and returned with her hands dripping water. Bibi crouched in front of Babu and gently combed her fingers through the wiry hairs sprouting from his chin. When his beard was clean, she lay her warm, damp hands over his hooves and picked at the fibers jammed between his toes. She pecked her husband on the snout and stroked his cheeks until he sighed.