Outside, her new husband was already waiting to pick her up. He was younger than Abdur Rahim by a good ten years, and one of his arms was smaller than the other as a result of a disease he had caught as a child. Without a word he collected Mina’s things with his one good arm and put them in his Toyota Corolla. He then drove her eastward until they arrived in Kunar.
Although the journey was long, the only thing Mina learned on the way was that her husband’s name was Hazrat Hussein and the Taliban were no longer in power in Af ghani stan, and hadn’t been for the past two years. “Although I was pleased to hear the Taliban had been defeated, I was also angry that, as far as I could see, nothing had changed. The Talib who had bought me was still in his big house and I was still the prisoner they had first made of me.”
When Mina arrived in Kunar, she was taken to a small house, and, as she’d half expected, there was already another woman in it. In fact there were two more. The older woman was Hazrat’s mother, and she was as sour as the milk from a poisoned goat. The other woman was Hazrat’s wife. Her name was Rana. She was tiny and very ill, and she had been unable to give her husband any children. After taking one look at the pitiful creature she would have to call sister, Mina knew what was expected of her.
She didn’t disappoint. A year later she handed Hazrat a son. They named him Daud. “Hazrat was delighted, and really he was, and is, a very good father to our son. And thanks to our son, my life is filled with some measure of joy now.” More amazingly, Hazrat’s mother melted like butter whenever she held her grandson, which softened her heavy-handed ways around the house. Even Rana gained strength and happiness with the arrival of Daud.
Even though life had forced the two of them together, Rana and Mina quickly became one as they united against their shared husband’s mother, and because my sister saw the pain in Rana’s eyes that came from her body, she did everything she possibly could to make life easier for her new sister.
It was because of my sister’s kindness that when Rana was listening to the radio one day, as Mina was busy cooking in the kitchen, and she heard Georgie’s message, she immediately told her about it. “I couldn’t believe it could be true. I was certain you had all been killed because I remember seeing the houses burning in the night as we drove away from Paghman, and I remember clearly the hate that had been painted on the faces of those men who took us. Then all of a sudden I get this message that you didn’t die after all, that you were still looking for me, even after all these years.”
For days after hearing Georgie’s message Mina bounced from joy to grief as she thought of us and then the miles between us that could have been a million as far as she was concerned, because she didn’t even dare to think that her husband would agree to her coming to Kabul.
But my sister hadn’t reckoned on the might of Rana. Day after day Hazrat’s first wife begged her husband to be merciful, and she cried real tears as she told him how happy this one act of kindness would make her—“she who had known nothing but the love of a good man and the anguish of an empty womb and failing health,” Mina whispered. “She was amazing. I owe her so much.”
Sadly, Rana died a month back from the illness that had been eating her insides. Wanting to honor the last wish of his dead wife, because he really was a good man just like Abdur Rahim said, Hazrat Hussein contacted the number Rana had written on a piece of paper and spoke to Georgie.
28
AFTER MINA CAME back from Kunar, and back into our lives, she stayed the night with my mother, sleeping in her room.
I wanted to stay with them because I didn’t want to leave my sister after just finding her again. It was all so strange and confusing. Mina was different. I recognized her, but at the same time I didn’t. In my dreams, when I had prayed so hard for her to come back, I always imagined her as a little girl. But she wasn’t a little girl anymore; she was a woman.
“You are so grown up!” Mina told me, pulling me to her because I was sitting by her side, not sure what to do. “I can hardly believe it! My little brother now a little man, all quiet and serious.”
“He’s not usually so quiet,” my mother said with a smile.
“Well,” Mina said, kissing me on the cheek, “it’s a lot to take in. We must get to know each other again.”
As Mina spoke I let myself fall deeper into her body. Though she was right and our eyes and our heads needed time to learn about each other, my heart already knew all there was to know, and it loved her.
When my eyes struggled to stay open, my mother told me to go to my room so she could speak to Mina alone. I wanted to stay, but I didn’t say so because I saw it was important to my mother, and as I waited for sleep to take me I listened to them talking and crying together. I guessed my sister was slowly getting the story of our life—and slowly getting used to the idea that she had lost our older brother, Bilal.
When the sadness of the night was over and the sun woke up to shine its happiness back on their talk, my mother decided that my sister’s return was a blessing from God that she should marry Shir Ahmad. I was pretty relieved when she told me because it stopped the guard from marrying someone else and it also allowed me to tick another secret off my list—well, almost. Apparently we still couldn’t tell any of our friends because we had to travel to Khair Khana to my aunt’s house first.
For two women who not so long ago couldn’t stand the sight of each other, they were sure as hell seeing a lot of each other now. But of course there was a reason for it. After all, this is Afghanistan, and rules have to be followed.
There in my aunt’s house, in front of the mullah who had said the prayers for Spandi, my mother and Shir Ahmad performed the marriage ceremony, nekah, accepting each other three times before Allah. As well as the holy man making sure they did everything right, my aunt and her husband were allowed to watch, as well as two of Shir Ahmad’s brothers, and my sister Mina and her husband.
Hazrat Hussein had turned up at our house earlier that morning, expecting to take his wife home but finding a wedding invitation in his hand instead. To my surprise, he was a lot bigger than I had imagined, and his face was soft and kind. And although his arm looked strange, as if God had tied a child’s one onto his body rather than a man’s, I was relieved to see it was the left one, which meant there were no embarrassing problems when it came to shaking hands.
As all the adults stood around being polite to one another, I heard that Hazrat had spent the night in Kabul, staying with a business partner of his. Apparently my sister’s husband did clever things with wood—so clever, in fact, that he could sell them. And in Khair Khana he presented my mother with a beautiful brown chest carved with flowers and singing birds.
Unfortunately, we didn’t get to see my sister’s baby, Daud, because he was in Kunar with his grandmother, but Mina promised she would bring him on her next visit. As she spoke she quickly looked at her husband as if she had forgotten something, but he nodded his head and it put the smile back on her face.
In the short time I’d known him I already liked Hazrat Hussein, which I suppose was just as well now that we were family.
When my mother and Shir Ahmad performed the nekah, the kids were made to wait outside, because those were the rules. Jahid’s brothers immediately went off to play in a ditch in front of the house because there was a dead cat in it. Jahid and I disappeared around the corner, well away from the house, so he could teach me how to smoke.
Although cigarettes were pretty disgusting and tasted of dead bukharis, I realized that if I was ever to become a man there were a lot of disgusting things I’d have to get used to. Hair downstairs was one of them, according to Jahid. Worse than that, one day I would wake up to find my cock had been sick.
“Your sister’s pretty good-looking,” Jahid said as he tried to blow smoke rings. “I tell you what, if she hadn’t been kidnapped, I wouldn’t have minded marrying her myself—being blood and all that.”
I looked at Jahid, with his rolling eye, lazy leg, and stumpy brown teeth,
and thought that if my sister had accepted his offer, I’d have handed her over to the Taliban myself.
“So, how’s the job going?” I asked, wanting to change the subject before my cousin forgot himself and started making sexy talk about the sister I’d only just got back.
“Slow,” he admitted, “but I’m starting to do more filing now, the paperwork and all that, and my boss says he’ll get me on one of those computer courses soon.”
“Shir Ahmad’s been going to computer school.”
“Well, it is the future.” Jahid nodded. “There’s not an office in Kabul that doesn’t have a computer these days. And you wouldn’t believe the amount of porn you can find on them. There are pictures, even films, of every kind of shagging you’ve never even thought of. There’s women shagging men, women shagging women, men shagging men, women shagging midget men, women shagging dogs, and I’ve even seen women sticking marrows up their—”
“Fawad!”
My mother’s voice rang out loud and clear, and Jahid and I quickly killed our cigarettes. “Here,” he said, handing me some chewing gum that was supposed to taste of banana but actually tasted of plastic. It was pretty disgusting as well. We used to sell it to the foreigners on Chicken Street for a dollar, proving people will buy anything if you look sad enough.
After my mother’s nekah, we said good-bye to Mina, who had to return to her baby. As we all held on to one another, it was both happy and sad, but Hazrat Hussein gave my mother a telephone number so we could call her any time we liked, which then made it more happy than sad.
Shir Ahmad returned to his house and my mother to our house. The next day, after the wedding party, my mother would finally move to her new house, and I would follow a week later—for a reason I didn’t want to know. While she’d spend the week doing stuff I didn’t want to know about, my mother thought I might like to stay at my aunt’s house. She couldn’t have been more wrong if she’d tried.
“Mother, the last time I was in that house Jahid’s father hit me on the head with a water jug, and one of their kids peed in my bed, and let’s not forget that my aunt’s food nearly killed you. Really, I’m not sure you’ve properly thought this through. But that’s okay, I know you’re not thinking straight, what with your mind being on your new husband rather than the happiness of your son and his chances of living to the end of the week.”
My mother smiled at me—which showed how much she had changed since she spat at her sister’s feet and left Khair Khana—and she played a little with my hair.
“Okay, Fawad, you win. If Georgie gives her permission, and promises to look after you, you can stay in the house for a week. I suppose it will give you time to say your goodbyes.”
We have a saying in Afghanistan: “One day you see a friend, the next day you see a brother.” After nearly a year living with the foreigners, I now had two sisters and one brother, and though their ways were sometimes strange and their behavior not in any way to be copied if you were a good Muslim, I loved them all dearly, each and every one of them. So when my mother and I returned home to tell them in Dari (with my English translation) that she had got herself married and would be moving out the next day and taking me with her a week later, they all looked at us with blank faces.
I think they call it shock.
Georgie was the first to recover her mind and remember her manners, and she gave my mother a hug.
“Congratulations, Mariya,” she said. “That’s fantastic news.”
“Yes, wonderful. Congratulations,” added James.
“Absolutely! Congratulations. I hope you have a wonderful life together,” said May. Then, just as everyone was getting used to the idea, she added, “I might as well tell you all now. I’ll also be leaving soon. I’m pregnant.”
If my mother’s news had been a surprise, May’s announcement hit everyone like a grenade. I translated May’s words for my mother. Her eyes grew wide, but she said nothing.
Again, Georgie was the first to recover.
“Congratulations, May! That’s . . . amazing.”
“It’s not just amazing; it’s a bloody miracle,” added James, stepping forward to give her a hug. “Who’s the father?”
“Well . . .” May smiled shyly. “The baby will be mine and Geri’s, but there’s a small chance it could be born with a French accent.”
I shook my head. In many of their ways the foreigners were just like Afghans. They laughed and cried, they tried to be good with one another, and they loved their families. But in other ways they were just plain crazy and trying their absolute hardest to burn for all eternity. Worse than that, they all seemed so damned pleased about it.
29
IN MY COUNTRY we wear the salwar kameez—basically a long shirt over baggy trousers. There’s a lot of cloth involved, more than you would believe, and it’s our traditional dress. These days I usually wear jeans like the older boys who copy the Iranian pop stars on TV, but there are times—say, at your mother’s wedding party—when the top of your trousers dig into your stomach because you’ve eaten so much it’s grown to the size of Kandahar, and it’s quite possible that at any moment you will be cut in two by the waistband. That’s when you realize that Afghans are a lot cleverer than Westerners. Not only do we believe in the One True God; we also make clothes big enough to fit Kandahar and Helmand.
“What’s the matter with you?” James asked as I fell into the seat next to him.
“I think I’m dying. I shouldn’t have eaten so much.”
About an hour after we arrived at the Herat Restaurant in Shahr-e Naw, we had started filling our faces. First it was ash—a soup of noodles, yogurt, kidney beans, and chickpeas—followed by potato and green onion bolani, eggplant in yogurt, Kabuli pilau, lamb kebabs, and finally firni, a delicious plate of cold custard. Really, it was no wonder that everyone enjoyed a wedding. It was probably the most food they got to eat in a year.
As I groaned under the weight of kebab lying in my stomach, James leaned over and moved his hands toward my trousers.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked, not too full to be shocked.
“Loosening your belt to help you breathe better.”
I looked at James in disbelief. “I don’t think so, James,” I said as I tugged the top of my trousers out of his hands.
Honestly, foreigners had no sense of shame, not even at a wedding.
Of course, it was my own fault, because I hadn’t stopped eating from the moment I sat down at my mother’s table until the moment I left her to collapse next to James in the men’s room. As was only proper, the men and the women were separated at the party. Only my mother and Shir Ahmad got to sit together, in a little room set aside for them where they could greet the family guests who came in to see them.
Although the party wasn’t huge and there was no music or dancing because it was a second wedding for both my mother and Shir Ahmad, she still looked amazingly beautiful in her pretty pink dress with her hair fixed in curls under her matching scarf. Her eyes were huge, painted in pink and black with sparkles around the edges and giant-size eyelashes that a woman had glued to her face back at our house.
As I was her son, I could tell my mother was really happy, even though she didn’t smile much because that was only proper too. In Afghanistan, when a girl gets married she has to look unhappy at her wedding. Her sadness shows everyone how much she loves and respects the family she is leaving. Of course, in some cases it’s also real because the girl is terrified of the family she is about to join. But real or not, an unhappy bride is a good bride, and if on the wedding day she can squeeze the tears out from her eyes, that makes her even better. Of course, in my mother’s case the tradition seemed a little backward given that she had left my grandparents a long time ago, and they were both dead anyway. But the fact that she still followed the rules marked her out as a “good woman.” A “good woman” marrying a “good man”—that’s what everyone kept saying. And I think they were right, because Shir Ahmad had loved
my mother for ages and he had changed his life so he could marry her, bettering himself at computer school and fixing up his home to make it ready for her even before he asked her to be his wife.
Yes, he was a good man, and I was pleased. He looked very handsome at the wedding banquet in his white suit and white shoes, and when he served my mother’s food to her, to show his respect, all the other women watched with smiles on their faces and nods of approval.
As well as me, my aunt, and Jamilla, Georgie and May sat in the marriage room, along with May’s woman-husband Geri. Out of all the Afghans at the wedding, only my mother and I knew of the baby hiding in May’s stomach, and before we left the house my mother begged the foreigners not to talk about it in public. If that news had got out, all of us might have been stoned to death, which wouldn’t have been a very good ending to my mother’s special day.
Despite having lived in the same compound as my mother for the best part of a year, James wasn’t allowed into the marriage room because he wasn’t a relative, and because he was a man. When I joined him he was sitting with Ismerai, Pir Hederi, and some friends of Shir Ahmad’s, looking lost because there was no one there to translate for him. Even though he had lived in Afghanistan for more than two years, James’s Dari hadn’t improved much from the few phrases he had learned when he first arrived, such as “Hello,” “How are you?” “Where’s the toilet?” and “Take me to your leader.” Mainly he got by with his hands flying wildly and the pocket dictionary he carried around with him.
I could only imagine how long it must have taken him to mess with Pir Hederi’s head over the business of the sandwiches.
When I began to feel a little better—without the need to run around the restaurant half naked—Ismerai asked me to go and fetch Shir Ahmad and bring him to the men’s room. He had a gift for him, apparently. I did as I was told because Ismerai was an elder. I was also excited to see what the present would be. Georgie had already given my mother a mobile telephone so she could call Mina whenever she wanted to, which I thought was pretty damn brilliant of her. But I could hardly imagine what Ismerai and Haji Khan were bringing to the table.
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