“Well done, you harlot!” Nafisa cheered.
“I’ve got one for both of you,” Latifa announced, clearing her throat as she launched into the verse. “Watch out, my heart, because I have fallen; a gift of heartache has come calling.”
“You’re just terrible, Latifa,” Nafisa whined. “Wait until you fall in love. You won’t be so pessimistic about it then.”
“Yes, every night I pray that God curses me with the same affliction you both have.”
“At least it gives us hope of getting out of here. A proper marriage and we can appeal to the judge for mercy.”
Mezhgan felt pity for Latifa.
“I’m sure there’s a way for Latifa to appeal too. You haven’t even tried. Maybe you should ask for a lawyer. Why did you refuse one anyway?”
“Because if they sent me back to my family I’d be back here in days charged with murder. I’m doing them a favor by refusing.”
Zeba was careful not to react, and the moment passed without her cellmates turning the conversation to her.
Love. Marriage. Freedom.
Zeba’s mind floated between melancholy and angry thoughts, a host of colors. A soft melody drifted through the cell, filling the quiet. It was Zeba’s voice.
“Alone and free of angst and sorrow
I’ve bled enough for today and tomorrow
Now it is time for my bud to bloom
I’m a sparrow in love with solitude
All my secrets contained within me
I sing aloud—I’m alone, finally!”
The women howled with delight to hear their cellmate’s voice lift in song. They would only realize later the distinct lack of romance in her lyrics and the peculiar mirth with which Zeba sang them.
CHAPTER 7
ZEBA LEANED HER HEAD AGAINST THE COLD WALL, CHIPS OF paint lifting from the corners and edges. She picked at the flakes with the insouciance of someone destroying a thing already ruined. In four days, she’d done nothing but contribute to the slow undoing of these walls, disappointing the curious women around her. A web of whispers laced through the prison, and with every hushed voice, the account of what Zeba had done changed, sometimes merely by degrees, but sometimes by great leaps.
You know she killed her lover—so that her husband wouldn’t. Can you imagine that kind of passion?
It wasn’t her lover, it was her sister’s husband. He was trying to fool around with her while his wife and her husband weren’t looking.
If she killed him, it must have been for good reason.
You’re such gossips. Besides, I heard she cut off his head and ran through the village with it.
Zeba had never gushed or blushed over Kamal before they were married. She’d never even seen him before their engagement. At her grandfather’s recommendation, her mother and brother had given her away when she was seventeen. She’d had no say in the arrangement, a decision made between her grandfather, Safatullah, and Kamal’s grandfather five years before their wedding date. Safatullah was a well-known murshid in their village, and her mother went along with the decision since Kamal’s grandfather was a respected army general. The two grandfathers were good friends who’d played chess together, prayed together, and despised the same people.
As murshid, Zeba’s grandfather was a spiritual guide, offering invaluable blessings and a connection to the Almighty. Kamal’s grandfather brought to the table a more earthly benefit, alliances with all the right people in the new government. Zeba’s family owned a great deal of land and needed highly placed friends to secure their hold on it.
In a demonstration of brotherly commitment, the two men orchestrated a marriage, tying their families together with a union that would create common blood.
Zeba’s mother, Gulnaz, had protested the marriage, begging her father to reconsider the arrangement. Her husband’s family, out of respect for the murshid, had agreed to his suggestion years ago and were of no help.
She is young and it is a bad time for a marriage, Gulnaz insisted. Let us wait a bit more.
The Soviets had retreated nearly sixteen years ago but in the absence of any real leadership or government, Afghanistan had spiraled into a civil war. Her fate was still unclear.
If you’re waiting for the fighting to end, the murshid had retorted, then Zeba may never marry. History has taught us that the fighting won’t stop until the last drop of Afghan blood has been spilled.
Kamal and Zeba were married in 1996 in a part of the country uncontrolled, as of yet, by the Taliban. It was an austere ceremony and celebration, marked by the rhythm of a dhol drum and the chiming of the tambourine. The newlyweds knew nothing about each other. Zeba shook her head to think of that first year, living in the family compound with her new husband, wishing desperately to return to her home where her mother lived with Rafi and his bride of one year, a woman Zeba resented for stealing her brother’s attentions.
Kamal, when they first married, did what he could to put her at ease. When he saw her tense and shy away, he found ways to endear himself to her. He told jokes. He ate what she cooked and asked for a second plate. He spoke to her about little things and big things and even brought her a gift here and there. A bag of sweets, a pair of shoes. Zeba felt herself relax with the attentions of her new husband. When Kamal was at his best, Zeba felt like she was living out the romantic songs played on the radio. In truth, the last time she’d been so content had been before her father had walked into the horizon and disappeared forever.
Zeba’s thoughts drifted to a time long ago when her husband’s brother had purchased a television and a DVD player. They’d bragged about it for a month before the women in the family organized an evening where they could get together and watch an Indian movie. Zeba had been invited too, and she’d sat cheerfully with the women, mesmerized by the whirl of colors, women dancing in dazzling saris, arms and exposed bellies gyrating lasciviously. The bache-film, the heartthrob of the movie, pounded his fist against his chest as he danced around his beloved, arms spread out in a bold declaration of love. Down on his knees, he thrust himself toward her in a way that made Zeba’s pious sister-in-law avert her eyes while the other women cheered with delight. Till the end of his days he would love only her, he sang. The room pulsed with the synchronized heartbeats of a dozen women hungry for a love so dangerously close to sin. Zeba blushed. Kamal had sung this song for her just a few days ago, squeezing her bottom flirtatiously as she passed him in the narrow hallway of their home. Zeba ran her fingers through her son’s hair. Basir, just three years old, lay curled at her feet—a small version of his father.
Heady, intoxicating, blasphemous love. The girl smiled coyly, skipping toward him and then away again in a dizzying dance of indecision. The children giggled and imitated the movements. One of the women laughed and slapped her four-year-old daughter on the shoulder.
“Sit down before your father comes in! You think he wants to see a dancer in his house?”
It was the most content Zeba would ever be, but it would not last long.
Their village was thankfully quiet, unlike the rest of the rocket-riddled country, and life was as routine as one could hope for. Zeba was fortunate. Her in-laws, in the years before they’d died, had treated her reasonably well. Only Kamal’s sister, Tamina, kept her distance from them. Zeba didn’t blame her. She’d acted in the same petulant way toward her own brother’s wife.
WHEN ZEBA GAVE BIRTH TO THEIR FIRST CHILD, BASIR, KAMAL had rejoiced. She’d given him a son who would look like him, carry on his father’s name, and bring honor to their family. Basir was bright and healthy and smiled readily.
Their next two children hadn’t survived and thus began a dark period for Zeba and Kamal. They buried a little girl of just seven months; she had an angelic face that would dance through Zeba’s dreams for the rest of her life and make her wake with a tightness in her chest. Two years later, they buried another child. This one was a boy who died the morning after the clan had marked his forty days with a feast and a re
ading of the Qur’an. Kamal and Zeba didn’t speak much after that. It was not an angry silence that hung between them. There was simply nothing to say.
“I won’t name her,” Zeba had said flatly when her third child was born. She had no reason to believe this child would endure, even after the forty days.
“But, Zeba, she needs a name. If something should happen to her . . . she needs a name.”
Zeba knew her husband was right. Even if the child died, she would need a name to be buried. Still, she refused.
“To sleep, to sleep, Little Girl,” Zeba sang softly as she rocked her infant daughter.
“Little Girl has started to crawl,” Zeba proudly reported to Kamal one day.
Zeba held her breath with every fever, every cold night, and every holiday, waiting for Allah to reclaim her. Only when Shabnam took her first steps did her parents finally choose a name for her, though, out of habit, they called her “Little Girl” until she was old enough to demand they use her real name.
Kareema had been different. Kareema had renewed their confidence. They didn’t have to rely on miracles. They could be normal. They would have heartaches and triumphs just like any other couple. This was why Zeba ignored Kamal’s mood swings and the times he lashed out at her with a heavy fist. It was a testament, she told herself, to just how normal he was.
Three years ago, they’d taken the children to the river. It was close to Nawruz, the spring equinox and start of the new year. Basir, Shabnam, and Kareema had played in the shallow banks, perched on stones. They’d splashed their hands in the water and soaked their clothes. Kamal had slept on the sheet she’d spread out while she watched the children, water droplets on their earlobes and fingertips catching the sunlight and sparkling like tiny crystals. They had trudged home, clothes heavy with water, but hearts light with the miracle of one joyous day.
In a family photograph taken nearly two years later, Kamal held Shabnam in one arm and Kareema in the other. Basir stood in front of his father, looking up at the lens obediently. Zeba stood demurely behind Kamal, her seated husband hiding the round of her belly, hiding Rima who was yet a few months from joining the family. She remained composed though her heart was ready to burst.
Could anything have been more perfect?
THE CHATTER OF HER CELLMATES BUZZED IN HER EARS, BACKGROUND noise to her own thoughts. What were the children doing? Were they terrified? Were they being treated decently? Her only consolation was that they were together.
Zeba’s stomach tightened to think of her children as orphans. But Basir, he was the type of boy a mother could have faith in.
Basir had said nothing when they’d taken Zeba away. Zeba had shrieked when they pulled her away, clawing at the air to reach Basir who lifted one arm toward her but hesitantly. A shadow had crossed his face, a darkness Zeba pretended not to see. All the children, especially Basir, were old enough to have known their father for what he was. Still, an angry father was better than a dead father.
Zeba’s neck was still sore from Fareed’s vengeful grip. Basir had helped two neighbors pull his father’s cousin off his mother.
“Let the police take her!” the neighbors had cried and turned Zeba over to Hakimi’s wide-eyed custody.
ZEBA FELT THE GUARDS’ EYES ON HER, KEYS JANGLING UNCEREMONIOUSLY as they strolled the wide hallways. It was a show, mostly. This was a job like any other, and the guards here had received little special training in policing inmates. The government wages were unreliable but better than nothing, and the titillating stories kept the day interesting enough.
Zeba’s story was more intriguing than most. Typically, husbands killed wives, not the other way around.
Whispers. Snickers. Eyebrows raised in acknowledgment.
Even the women who spoke in hushed voices were so near to her that Zeba could almost feel their hot breath in her ear. Some voices made her head throb as she pictured her children huddled together, confused.
God help those children. If she’s got daughters, they’ll probably be given away before her case goes to trial.
You know what they say. You can’t kill your husband, even if he’s the horned devil himself.
It wasn’t clear when the judge would summon her to discuss the charges, but it had to be soon. The children were staying with Kamal’s sister, Tamina. Zeba had begged for them to be sent to Rafi’s home instead, but Chief Hakimi, recalling Fareed’s fiery threats, had scoffed at her request.
“Khanum, I don’t think your head is clear. Your husband is dead. Let’s not dishonor him further by sending his children to the home of a stranger.”
“It didn’t have to be this way,” she said quietly. “You could have saved us.”
Hakimi had not replied, busying himself with paperwork and nodding for another officer to take her into custody. True, Zeba had come to him a month ago, the flesh over her cheekbone purple and blue, warning him that some of the men from the village were praying to a new god, one that lived in a bottle. They spent their evenings in a stupor and returned to their homes in a punishing mood.
God will strike them down for their sins, Zeba had prophesied. But by then it might be too late.
Zeba wondered what to tell the judge. When she closed her eyes, the events of that day came slowly into focus, like the flutter of a television on an overcast day.
ZEBA HEARD THE GUARD CALL THAT DINNER WAS READY. DOWN the hall, a heavyset woman in her fifties doled out steaming, cumin-infused rice with stewed potatoes. One woman from each cell would bring back a platter of rice and stew for the cellmates to share. The cellmates sat around a pale yellow tablecloth spread on the floor and mouthed morsels of rice and potatoes from their pinched fingers. Zeba joined them, keeping her somber eyes to herself and wishing she could have fed her own children this well. The women shook their heads but didn’t let the presence of their mute cellmate dampen their conversation. They smiled through greasy lips and nodded at stories they’d heard over and over again.
By her second week, Zeba felt sick wondering what Basir thought of her. Her arms ached just thinking of her daughters and the way they had buried their faces against her in the moments before the neighborhood had barged into their home. Day and night, she slept with her face to the wall.
Her cellmates thought her stuck-up.
We’re all here for some reason or another, guilty or not. Why not just tell us what you did?
Are you too good to talk to us?
Maybe she’s lost her mind.
Come on, if you’re going to be living with us for the next God knows how many years, we want to know who you are!
No one in this prison knew Zeba. They knew nothing about her husband or her distraught children. She was miles from home, miles from her village, and thankful for the anonymity. She would meet with the judge in the next week or two, she’d been told. She’d not yet breathed a word about that day’s bloody events, the hatchet found in her husband’s head, or the trail of footprints leaving their home.
CHAPTER 8
YUSUF SQUINTED HIS EYES, THE HEADLIGHTS OF ONCOMING cars bright in the evening light. A man on a bicycle chimed his handlebar bell. Yusuf stepped to the side to avoid his foot being run over by the cart the bicyclist pulled behind him. He had missed this, though it was remarkably similar to the noise and chaos of the Chinese, Indian, and Afghan neighborhoods of Queens. Had there been an elevated subway train roaring overhead, Yusuf might have felt that he was only a few blocks from home.
He’d spent the day revisiting the city he’d grown up in and trying not to look like a tourist. But between the bottle of water and the iPhone he pulled out to snap photos of the gardens, the monuments, or the dry riverbed, he had little chance of blending into the local crowd.
Another neighborhood, another band of boys in the street.
Kaka, Kaka, a boy had called out. Uncle, take my picture! He’d folded his arm across his chest and smiled broadly, revealing two missing teeth. Another child in a baseball cap followed his friend’s lead, cocki
ng his head to the side and winking.
He’d taken their photographs and, to their delight, showed the images to them.
You’ll take these back to America and show everyone, won’t you?
Yusuf had laughed, promising to do just that.
Movie stars! That’s what they’ll say about us Kabul boys.
He took a sip of water from the bottle he’d purchased and felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was his mother.
“You weren’t sleeping, were you?”
“No, Madar-jan. It’s still early in the evening. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes. Listen, your Khala Zainab called me just a few moments ago and told me she was so happy to see you. She thanked me for the gifts and said you were so polite and wonderful and . . . well, she praised you so much I didn’t know what to say.”
“That was nice of her. It was good to see them,” Yusuf said.
“Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Why?”
“I’m going to give you Meena’s mobile number. You can call her and speak to her. Get to know her.”
“Meena’s number?” Yusuf was bewildered. “How did you get that?”
“Her mother, of course. She wants you both to talk. Kaka Siar doesn’t know about this. It’s just between Meena and her mother.”
Yusuf debated whether it was ridiculous or progressive of Khala Zainab to call his mother on the other side of the earth with Meena’s cell phone number.
“I’m supposed to call her?”
“Yes!” his mother moaned. “She can’t really call you, can she? Now, listen. When you call her, ask her what she’s interested in. Ask her how many kids she wants to have and if she wants to work or study. Don’t do all the talking.”
Yusuf tilted his head back and took a deep breath. Was his mother giving him advice on how to talk to a girl?
“Madar-jan, I think I know how to have a conversation.”
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