"Traitors," I sobbed. As the two young girls that were supposedly my sisters held both my legs on each side, spreading it.

Traitor; was my supposed mother who rolled a piece of cloth and placed it under my hip. She told me to hush and ask one of my sisters to place a gag on my mouth. I bit her finger on her first attempt; but the other girl pushed me down, so the first girl could my stuff my mouth with a dirty cloth.

Traitor; was this infant, who had decided to leave my womb early. He was so eager to visit the world and he did not understand that the world will not welcome him with open arms.

Traitor; was my heart for falling for the wrong man; for letting him plant his seeds inside me with ease and then disowning that child of his with the same ease. I had betrayed myself the most. What was the punishment for betraying oneself? Maybe, the onslaught of punishment had started by the birth of this child -- my son.

I wept silently as my body betrayed me as it had done the night of the conception. I bit on the rag that they had stuffed inside my mouth. I let out a guttural scream as the infant slipped from my canal to the hands of the old lady. I sobbed and looked away when I heard his cries. My sisters cooed in delight. How easy was it to fall in love with him? Did he look like his father too?

I felt her move around me and I could hear his cries. He was strong, I heard her say, but I didn't care. I was weeping at my horrid circumstances. I was ridiculing the way my life had changed. I moved my face away as she brought the infant close to me. I didn't want to see his face -- not now. The girls had moved from my side, and had left my leg. My body was tired, bloody and ached. My heart ached the most.

I lay silently on the dirty, sandy floor of the shed. It was a little away from my Master's manor so that they won't be able to hear my cries -- or his cries. The old lady -- my mother -- brought the infant close to me again. I closed my eyes. She moved him away from me, and I opened my eyes, crying, and then I glanced at the bloody moon. It was the same colour on the night of my child's conception -- red and ugly. No one knew why the moon had decided to change its colours. If the scholars had theories -- they were not going to share it with me.

Who was I to them?

I was a dancer; a dancer who was brought in front of men and moved so that they could be mesmerized by my beauty, my grace, and my body. Many scholars visited my Master, stared at my body, and walked away.

Who was I to them?

Now, I wasn't even a dancer. There was no grace about me nor beauty. My body was bulbous -- rounded at all the wrong places. I might have been a dancer, but one night had made me a mother.

"What shall we name him?"

One of my sisters asked. She was a dancer. She was not fat or round. She had grace, and beauty, and wits about her. She will continue to mesermerize till she died. She won't make the mistake of being a mother.

I felt their gaze on me. They expected me to answer them. They could name him anything they wanted. They could name him after the devil, himself. What had that got to do with me?

"Aadam," the old witch replied, she said in the same kind tone that she had used at me when I had told her about my mistake, "He looks like an Aadam, doesn't he?"

"He looks like the devil." I muttered.

"Hush, child, did you even look at him? He is beautiful." She said.

"What will his beauty do for me?" I said.

"Come," she moved closer to me, I glanced at her, she was carrying that bundle in her arm, "Come, look at him, and tell me if you don't change your mind."

I moved and the instantly the girls were behind me to support me. The old lady -- the mother of all dancers in my Master's house -- had trained them well. One of them held my back and lifted me up. The other hovered beside me, in case, I decided I wanted something else -- or decided to do something absurd like throwing the infant.

Slowly, the old woman brought the infant closer to me, "He did not cry for long, Zainab. I think he understood that you were in pain."

I glared at her, "He is an infant who does not know anything."

"You will be surprised," the old witch said.

"You are not a saint so stop acting like one. You are a lady who is tasked to bring beautiful girls under her wing and teach them how to showcase their body to men. Stop acting as if you are wise."

It was all the emotions. I was not trained to talk to her like that. I was trained to be polite, eloquent, elegant and graceful. I had to ensure that I had feminity dripping in every move that I made. The girls gasped beside me at my words; but they were trained to react no further.

"Do you want to see your son?"

My son.

A year back, if someone told me that I would become a mother. I would have laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more. Then, I would have asked: who would be that unlucky child?

As the old witch placed him in my arms, I gazed at his face, it would be him. A pull forced me to bring his near to my breasts. As if, realising that it was his mother that held him, the infant opened his eyes and gazed back at me.

I choked back a sob.

I didn't like agreeing with the old witch. But he was beautiful.

"Aadam," I whispered.

I looked up at the ladies looking at me, and cried, "Oh, what have I done!"