MARRIAGE MADE IN HELL
I used the byline Zelda M because I didn't want to reveal too much about myself when I first started work in the Star six years ago. This is one of the saddest story in my life. Each time I am in Shah Alam, my heart skipped because that's where it all happened 22 years ago. I am a forgiving person but somehow I couldn't find the strength to forget this sad episode nor forgave this man who has hurt and battered me so much. The only good thing that came out of this marriage is Arif.

To Arif, I hope you will understand why I just could not bring myself to talk about your father.



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MARRIAGE MADE IN HELL
BY ZELDA M

I HAVE an enduring soft spot for older men. They make my heart beat faster. Young men are not for me because from past experiences, most of them regard women as Nintendo games - the minute a new version appears, their fingers itch to have a go.

So, as a young divorcee and student at a local university, I was flattered when 46-year-old Hardy showered me with attention. A lecturer in senior management, he was 24 years older than me with three sons from a previous marriage.

Hardy wouldn't start his lectures without me. He walked me to the library, spent more and more time with me and it wasn't long before he frequented my dorm. Though I felt suffocated initially, all this had a quaint effect.

I was gradually drawn to him. I used to listen raptly to all his stories. Hardy had a formidable character. He barred my friends from me. He would get very annoyed if I didn't pay attention to him.

But it was his unfeigned openness and persistence to "own'' me as his wife that really boosted my ego. He made me feel so desirable and attractive.

When he told me he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, I thought that was the sincerest thing a man could say to a woman. I'd heard before from my father how he had to sacrifice his family and everything else to marry a rich Pakistani girl, my mum. By that yardstick, I thought Hardy was made of the same stuff as my father and I was elated.

After I graduated, Hardy suggested I work at the same place so that we could be together.
He proposed and bought me an exquisite platinum ring. I felt like a cherished treasure. My three-year-old daughter, Alya, was happy when told about her new daddy.

But Hardy had a few surprises in store for me after our wedding. First, he told me I couldn't keep the keys to the house in Shah Alam because he didn't trust me. I had to ask his permission if I wanted to talk to the neighbours or make a call. That came like a bombshell. Next, he told me I had to share his ex-wife's closet. But I thought he was just being practical.

On our wedding night, I grew restless waiting for him in the master bedroom while he dawdled. I went looking for him and found him cleaning his collection of kris and cooling them with lime juice.

Terrified, I tiptoed back to bed and covered myself with a blanket. When he finally came in and placed the kris underneath my pillow, I knew I was in for big trouble.

"The kris is like my spirit,'' he explained. I was never to disobey him or I'd be harmed, he warned.

The following night, I was in for another blow. Just after dinner, Hardy told me to get to bed. It was more like an order. He looked scornful when I told him I wanted to finish what I was reading. I recalled Hardy telling me I was openly defying him.

The minute I entered the room, I smelt traces of incense. He locked the room. I could see he was in a different mood this time. It was menacing and his voice was threatening. I shivered when he pushed me towards the bed.

Before I knew it, he had tied me up with a long rope. I put up a struggle but he was stronger. When I cried, he whipped me.

For Hardy, my groans of pain were the most sensual thing he'd ever heard. It satisfied his insatiable lust. By the time he had me, I was shaking all over. The trauma was too much for my small frame and my whole body ached so badly I thought I had passed out.

Although I was hurting all over, I could not sleep a wink and literally dragged my feet to the office next morning. It was the most disturbing experience I ever had. Till today, I go cold when I think of how he terrorised me.

Hardy loved my cooking and would demand a big spread even when there was just the two of us dining. Visitors, relatives or neighbours were out of bounds.

Sometimes, I forgot his instructions. Sometimes, I didn't understand, sometimes I was just plain stupid. Each time I failed to live up to his expectations, Hardy said I was rebelling against him.
In the days that followed, I felt like the prisoner of Zenda. The frequent heated arguments and his obsessive control over my every move made my first month of marriage excruciatingly painful.

I knew I was living dangerously - Hardy had an obsession with order and control, and a violent temper. I remember vividly, the first time Hardy hit me.

It was late one night, two weeks after the wedding. I was reading a book near the dining table. He tried talking to me. I remember that the conversation seemed to be going well.
We were really conversing, sharing ideas for the first time since we got married. We were not fighting, we were not sarcastic or nasty. I swear we were just talking. But I think it was the first time I disagreed with him and I was sticking to my guns. I held on to my side of the argument calmly.

He got up and hit the left side of my face. Then came a hard punch to my right eye. I felt like my whole pupil had popped out. Then, another good sock to my left ear. I heard this ringing sound. I found out later he had broken my eardrum.

By the second month of our marriage, I was getting used to my bruises healing and changing from black, to green to maroon and yellow before fading.


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The next attack came a week later. I was lying down on the sofa and recovering from a mild flu. I had just prepared dinner. He asked me what was wrong. "Maybe I'm pregnant but do you care?'' I answered.

This irritated him and we argued for a good 10 minutes. He got furious and hit me hard in the abdomen a number of times. I bent over, trying to protect my tummy. I tried pushing him away, which only seemed to make him angrier. He yelled that he didn't care if he killed me or the baby. That night, I plotted to run away or hide somewhere, anywhere as long as I got away from this hell.

I went missing for three days without taking my clothes or personal belongings. I couldn't plan my escape from his clutches because we worked in the same place. Right after work, I hid in a friend's house. But I wasn't settled. The thoughts of Hardy coming after me scared me witless.
Hardy came looking for me every night at all my friends' homes. In the end, my friends gave me up and I was forced to go back with Hardy. At that point, I really felt like a sheep waiting to be slaughtered.

The doctor confirmed I was pregnant. Riding home on the bus, I felt more alone than I ever had in my life. When I told Hardy about the baby, he was convinced I couldn't take care of the baby.
I can't remember any physical abuse during the first month of my pregnancy. But there were new problems - chronic black moods and silences that stretched on for days. It was the forced abstinence, I presumed. The kinky sex had stopped but "the spirit of the kris'' was there.
Sex had always seemed to settle his dark moods and made him happy. Much as I detested our love-making, that was the only time I did not feel rejected.

I was totally subservient but that didn't stop Hardy from coming at me for the slightest thing. He was like a big bully and behaved erratically.
By my fifth month of pregnancy, Hardy had slipped into a semi-silent mood. One Sunday, I was dusting the book shelf and arranging his books. The place looked messy and I suggested a library or something. Before I knew it, Hardy grabbed my hair and slapped me hard. I managed to run to the garden.

I remember crouching in a corner of the garage. He chased me to our bedroom. It was one of the worst beatings Hardy ever gave me. And I hadn't done anything but to suggest having a library.
I used to hit my hand against the wall in complete frustration, so much so that the platinum ring he gave me was bent out of shape. I also hid in the closet a number of times during that horrible, horrible year of 1983.

Sometimes, I would lock myself in the reading room, curled up in a foetal position when he banged on the door. The dark void was like a tranquilliser. I couldn't see him. But most importantly, it was so dark I couldn't see myself.

But I finally walked out after a beating on Alya's fourth birthday. I had bought a two-faced doll for her and promised to visit her at my parents' home. I cried, pleaded and eventually yelled at Hardy for not allowing me to see her.

I finally challenged him to divorce me. I guess I had finally realised that if I could not have Alya, that was it.

I walked up to him and said: "I miss her and I want to be with her and you can't stop me.''
His face was terrifying, filled with incredible hate and wide-eyed anger. I ran. He came after me and caught me right outside the room at the top of the stairwell. I never expected he would try to throw me over the banister.

He held me by my hair and shook me hard. He broke my glasses with a punch.
That night, after he was fast asleep, I sneaked downstairs to call my father. I bundled my clothes in one of my caftans and despite my pregnancy, climbed down from the balcony, Rapunzel-style.
My father was shocked at my battered state. He wanted to challenge Hardy to a fight but my mother stopped him. That was the end of our eight-month-old marriage.
We went to the police station in Shah Alam. I didn't know what I wanted to do then. The bruise was beginning to colour. My father insisted the police photograph it for proof. The police told me they could issue a warrant of arrest if I filed a complaint. But I didn't want Hardy put in jail. I just wanted someone to talk to him.
I stayed with my parents throughout the rest of my pregnancy. My father chaperoned me to work and never allowed me near Hardy. When our son was born, Hardy wanted a reconciliation.
I acted fast. Just after my maternity leave, I asked for a transfer to another branch in Pahang. By then, the office already knew of Hardy's wife-beating reputation so my transfer was approved within 24 hours (the fastest ever by government standards).

Hardy wouldn't divorce me. In fact, he told all our friends I was legally his wife. I finally plucked up enough courage to challenge him in court. I couldn't take it anymore - not the slaps, not his control over me, not his compulsive cleanliness, his stringent household rules, his erratic behaviour nor his depraved ways. Enough was enough.

The relationship had many incestuous overtones. Hardy was old enough to be my father. The bitter experience taught me one lesson - if you marry a father figure, you cannot grow up. Father teaches, daughter learns.

MARRIAGE-GO-ROUND

I am no Elizabeth Taylor despite being much married. I don't have the beauty nor the wealth that Liz has. I wrote this using my pseudonym Zizi Machushla because I just love the name. It's not that I am proud of what I have gone through but I have often been misconstrued by people. There is much more to this story but don't try to read too much into the line because it might not be true.

Marriage-go-round
Byline: ZIZI MACHUSHLA

I'D ALWAYS dreamt of being a modern-day Cinderella, swept off my feet by a prince at the stroke of midnight, to a proverbial fairytale happy-ever-after. Instead I got married five times before I was 24! My marriages and children by different fathers have naturally made me a target for gossip. My first marriage was arranged. My parents were as conservative as they come.

I would even say that much of my rebellious streak is a reaction against their starchy ways. My father even followed me for what passed as first `date'. Under the pretext of returning a book, I met Rudy beside a cherry tree, near my house. It was the swiftest `thank you' and `bye' gestures because nothing else would have been possible under the watchful eyes of my father.

From then on, my parents made sure there were no more dates, no illicit romances, no boyfriends; but secretly I wrote lots of love letters to friends and admirers.
When my father knew I had several paramours - from the mail which he monitored secretly - he thought nothing of marrying me off. He was more adamant after learning that I'd walked away during my chemistry paper. I was game for marriage because I couldn't stand the grip they had over my life.

So, there I was an innocent bride to Joshua, a 26-year-old bank officer. Then came the exam results. They were fairly good - good enough for me to gain entry to university.
This led to fresh plans for me by my domineering father, even though I was already a married woman with a life of my own. Without my knowledge, he had enrolled me in a local university.

Soon, I was a student again, a part-time wife and halfway to motherhood. It sounds too good to be true. And it was. A call from a woman who claimed she was Joshua's wife burst the bubble.
My father was shattered. A bitter confrontation was followed by a temporary separation and then a divorce. At 18, after nine months of married life and pregnant, I was a divorcee.

When Ezra, my firstborn was one-year-old, I befriended a physics lecturer, Isaac, again under the hawk-eyed scrutiny of my father. As usual, there was no time for courtship and dating rituals.

So in less than two months, I married Isaac in a grand wedding. But the preparation lasted just a bit longer than the marriage: we were husband and wife for just one week.
When Isaac's parents learnt that he had just married a divorcee, they insisted that he deserved a better deal. So, there I was again, divorced and alone.

Husband Number 3 was my lecturer in my finals. He was very much older than I was. The union was an unhappy one as I discovered, after marriage, that he was abusive, possessive, cruel and regarded me like an object more than his wife. It was a turbulent marriage which lasted almost eight months. Secretly, I hoped and prayed this marriage would work. It was like hoping for a miracle. And there was none this time either. And once again, I found myself alone and pregnant.

At 21, I was thrice divorced. This was the blackest phase of my life since I had to seek refuge in another state from my abusive ex who was hassling me for a reconciliation.
People around me tried to be helpful. But there was no comfort. The more I looked at my two kids, the more desolate I felt. All I could think of was how to keep going and stay busy to keep my sanity. I needed my solitude badly.

A job transfer to Kuantan seemed the only solution. The office wanted someone for a PR job, responsible for the administration and welfare of the students and 40-odd staff - that sort of thing.
When they finally chose me, I felt a small current of hope as I thought of a new place, a new job and a new start.

I liked it. I found the whole new setting absolutely therapeutic. I don't remember having so much fun in life. For the first time, away from my father's watchful eyes, I could date the men of my choice. I was wooed by many men but was not interested in looking for another husband.

After a few months, I fell for Zack, who was gentle and - more importantly - unattached. I was 23 years-old. Zack insisted I quit my job. Like a fool I obeyed. That's when I discovered we were `squatters' in his cousin's house.

Zack also began to disappear, using his work as an excuse. My jewellery went missing, and my savings ran out fast.
When Zack went missing again for weeks - something that had become predictable - stories filtered back to me about his shady lifestyle.

When I confronted Zack after he finally showed up, he was so smooth that I just wanted to believe him. But deep in my heart, I knew it was over.
The day I discovered I had morning sickness, totally broke, I felt my humiliation was complete. I couldn't bear to face anyone. In my search for a fairytale, it never occurred to me that reality and men could be so heartless and cruel. It just shows how people's inner needs can cloud their judgement. My loneliness and fantasy had made me a target.

Just as I was about to give up, an old friend referred me to his superior, Larry.
A distinguished-looking man in his late 40s, Larry was a highranking law enforcement officer with the wellbred air of someone to the manner born.

There's something about mature men that sends shivers down my spine. Maybe I had seen too many movies and read too many romance paperbacks. Whatever it was, when I met Larry, all the others seemed to fade away. The snag: he was still very much married.
After learning about my marriage fiasco, Larry swiftly took me under his wing, and confronted Zack. The face-off seemed a wakeup call for Zack. It drove him mad with jealousy and he was "yours faithfully" for a while.

Then Zack's ex-wife, Sara, who had a hairtrigger temper and a madwoman's disposition, badgered Zack to leave me, and that he did.
But I had no time to wallow in self-pity because Larry was waiting for me the day I packed my things.
He lost no time making up for all the pain of my four failed marriages. He clothed me in designer suits, we travelled extensively, dined in the most exclusive places and wrote each other cards and letters.
Once, when I was in my parents house, Larry sent a telegram. My poor father almost had heart palpitations when he saw the message: `'Z, my one and only love. I miss you." On my 24th birthday, Larry gave me seven watches, eleven cards and a huge bouquet.
His concern for my unborn child was real and moving. The minute labour began, Larry was by my bedside. He was there for me and my baby, something which no previous husband had done.
We were married for 14 years, got divorced twice and had four kids. Larry wanted more children with me because he said he was different from all the other jerks I had married.
But all good things come to an end, some sooner than others. A heart attack struck two years ago. Larry collapsed one evening suddenly. Panic-stricken, all I could do was to let his face rest on my lap as he clutched my hands until the ambulance came.

I can still remember how his head lolled over, slumped and rested on my body that day; how I cradled him protectively.
When they wrested him from my grasp and loaded his still form into the vehicle and strapped him down, I knew I had lost him.

He was declared brain-dead on arrival at the hospital. When I signed the pile of papers the hospital gave me, that was one of the loneliest moments of my life.
When they lowered him into the ground, dropping handfuls of earth on his covered body as the priest said the final goodbye, I went numb. After everyone had left, I stood by his grave, silently talking to my dear husband.

I floated in and out of reality for a week. Every day after fixing food for my children, I would stare at the ceiling or into space until I was able to fall asleep. I was eaten by memories of Larry.
It is not easy to be a divorcee or widow in a conservative society. She must now, of course, live her life in a manner befitting her enforced single status.
To be a divorcee several times, like myself, is a virtual kiss of death.

But I refuse to follow the road usually travelled by people in my situation. A woman has the right to bail out of a bad relationship, but that should not stop her from trying again and again until she finds the right one.
I may be divorced several times, but that doesn't mean I don't believe in romance and marriage.
But I will never walk into a relationship without being sure he is the right man for me and my children.