“I am Jahan, son of Gulab.”
“We have come to meet you,” the man said to us, and gestured to the hidden woman to include her. “I am Droon, the deputy minister to my brother, Zorak Wahidi, and we wish to speak to you about an alliance between your sister, Rukhsana, and my brother.”
The Proposal
THE STREET WAS DESERTED EXCEPT FOR A PASSING cyclist who swerved away when he saw the policemen.
Droon paid no attention to me as he spoke to Jahan. I was a stranger, a friend of no importance.
“That won’t be possible,” I heard Jahan say calmly. “She is betrothed to Shaheen, son of Nedaa Rafi.”
“My brother is a minister in the government and all things are possible, my young friend.” Droon had a gentle but steely voice. “This Shaheen is not here, is he?” He looked at me.
It was as if I had been punched hard in the stomach. I had to escape. What had I done to attract such a terrible fate? If Fatima was right, that laughing, dancing girl had embedded herself in his memory and out of such innocence is a man’s obsession born. And then I had defied him those years ago in the office and he had remembered. I was probably the only woman who had. That’s why he had called me to the press conference—to confirm his memory before he declared his true intent. Now I would become his personal slave, for him to beat whenever he wished, his property to do with as he chose. I had to escape, get out of the country. Now. I wanted to run and run, but I knew this would be a fatal move. Instead, I stood there shaking in the dark, swallowed whole by the fever of my panic.
I concentrated on Droon so that I wouldn’t give myself away. Droon didn’t resemble his brother. He had a fleshy nose and deep-set eyes; the beard masked the rest of his face. He must have been the son of another wife. He smiled, but it never touched his eyes.
“Still, she is betrothed to him,” Jahan said, matching the steely courtesy. I had never seen my brother look more stubborn or more determined. He did not glance at me, not wanting Droon to take a further interest in his young friend. It was a strange sensation to hear myself spoken about, to be a witness to Rukhsana’s life. I was still an invisible woman. Invisibility had its advantages, in overhearing secrets and plots, but like a spirit I could not intervene in the fate of Rukhsana. I could only hover within hearing distance and remain the frightened spectator.
“My brother is a very wealthy man and he is keen for this alliance.” Droon placed a friendly hand on Jahan’s arm, drawing him into the conspiracy for my life. “Your sister is a fine-looking woman and he believes she will bear fine children too. He thinks of her often, which is why he makes this proposal.”
“He is not family. How can he have seen her under her burka?” Jahan demanded.
“He has, before she was dismissed from the offices of the Kabul Daily, and so did I,” Droon said sharply.
I took a step back, petrified now—how long had he been watching, waiting for this moment?
“That is why women should be hidden, so that they do not corrupt men’s minds,” he continued. Then he smiled. “Your family, and you, will not suffer any further from want.”
“But isn’t your brother married?” Jahan asked quite boldly as he took on the mantle of head of our house. “He is an elderly man.”
“He was married, but his wife and eldest son were killed when their home was attacked by mujahedeen,” Droon said. “It was fortunate that his two younger sons were visiting friends. He is a brave warrior who has spent the last eight years fighting for his country. Now that he plans to settle in Kabul, he needs a wife to care for his children. He will look after your sister very well, as he is, as I mentioned, very wealthy. He believes she is a very spirited woman and he could enjoy her company, though she will need to be taught a lesson or two.” He looked over Jahan’s shoulder to the darkened house. “Is your sister at home? My wife,” he said, nodding at the woman in the Land Cruiser, “will speak to her and to your mother.”
“My sister isn’t here. She went to Mazar-e-Sharif to help with my female first cousin’s wedding preparations. As we’re a very close family, one of us had to be there for such a celebration, and she had to go. My mother is not well and, as a man, I will only be there for the wedding. Rukhsana went there with my uncle’s family this afternoon. She will stay there for three weeks, maybe longer depending on the roads.”
I was amazed at my brother’s ability to lie with such a serious and solemn face. He could walk on the stage and convince anyone with his talent.
“When did she leave?”
“As I said, this afternoon. She went with my uncle. They left in his car.”
“I see,” he said, but there was a tenor of disbelief in his voice.
Droon sighed, a hiss of breath, and signaled to the two policemen. “Search the house.”
“She is not at home,” Jahan said. “I told you she left with my uncle . . .”
“Yes, yes, I know what you said. We just want to be certain.” Droon walked past Jahan, toward our house.
“My mother is ill and I cannot permit you to disturb her.”
“Your sister left your mother all alone?” He turned back and smiled in disbelief. “She isn’t a dutiful daughter then.”
“We have a doctor, Dr. Hanifa, who stays with my mother all day. And I am here.”
Droon touched my brother’s face as if to pat it gently, then closed his fingers around his jaw, squeezing hard. His middle finger was missing but that did not lessen the strength of his grip. He was hurting Jahan.
“My brother has given me the authority to do what I want. I do not need your permission. You are a young man, still not wise, and you should respect your elder’s commands. Understand?” He released my brother’s face, and this time patted it gently.
“Then, sir”—I detected a mocking tone in Jahan’s “sir”—“may I at least warn my mother before your police search? She is old and ill and they will frighten her.”
“Go with him,” Droon told the policemen.
“I’ll send my cousin to open the front gate,” Jahan said and gestured to me.
I walked to the corner and turned down the lane. I couldn’t take another step, so I leaned against the wall. My heart was beating too fast; nausea bent me double, but I couldn’t retch out anything. I could not run away and disappear into the night. It would endanger Jahan and my mother. I steadied myself, sucked in deep breaths, and moved to the side gate. Abdul snored and snorted. I let him sleep; the less he knew, the better. I went through the house and across to the front side gate. I swung it open and remained behind it.
Jahan led the policemen and Droon’s wife up the steps to the front door. She carried an elaborate basket filled with plums and pomegranates, on top of which was a beautiful purple and blue silk hijab with heavy gold-threaded borders. I waited, but Droon didn’t follow them. He had settled back into the car. I closed the door and joined Jahan and the others inside. Jahan lit a lamp.
“Search where you wish, while I wake my mother,” Jahan said firmly to the two policemen. And to Droon’s wife, politely, “Please wait here.” The woman stood as motionless as a draped statue.
I slipped past the others and upstairs to Mother’s room. She was sleeping peacefully and Dr. Hanifa was reading. She looked up at me in surprise and I put a finger to my lips. I went to Mother’s side and gently shook her awake. She looked up at me with no recognition. Jahan entered holding the lamp.
“The police are looking for Rukhsana,” he whispered quickly in English. “I told them she went to Mazar this afternoon for a cousin’s wedding. The Talib Wahidi wants to marry her. Babur, here, is our cousin, your brother’s son from Kunduz. He’s visiting and staying with us. Wahidi’s brother, Droon, has sent his wife. She’s waiting . . .”
He was silent as the policemen brought their lamp into the room, holding it high. It illuminated Mother lying in her bed, her head resting on pillows, her face gentle and serene. She looked as fragile as a flower pressed between the pages of a book, faded, and I wanted to embrace and pro
tect her. She said nothing, allowing them to observe her as if she were a relic.
“You must not disturb her,” Dr. Hanifa said sternly.
“We must ask. Where is your daughter?” one asked politely, respecting her condition.
“She went to Mazar-e-Sharif for a wedding this afternoon.”
“And left you alone?”
“I’m not alone. I have Dr. Hanifa, my son, Jahan, and my nephew Babur to take care of me.”
“When will she return?”
My mother considered the question with drowsy eyes. “Whenever she does. When the wedding is over, when the roads are safe, when it is time.”
They accepted her reply and, with a curt nod, went out. Jahan followed, but as I moved away from the bed, Mother clutched my hand.
Dr. Hanifa stepped forward and squinted. “Is that you, Rukhsana?”
“Yes. You won’t tell anyone, will you?” I pleaded. “I have to stay here to look after Maadar.”
“Of course not,” she replied indignantly. “You’re in terrible danger.” She examined me carefully and added, “But you must know that already.”
“You have gone mad to be dressed up like that,” Mother whispered, panic making her breath come faster. “They’ll kill you.” She touched the beard. “What’s done is done.” Her grip tightened. “And now you have to get out.”
“I can’t.” I loosened her grip.
“You’re in great danger; they will kill you in an instant if they discover this.”
“I know. But—” I stepped away when Jahan led in Droon’s wife.
She stood by the bed and Mother stared up at the shapeless form.
“My brother-in-law wishes to marry your daughter.” She had a young girl’s voice, muffled by the burka, and there was a nervous note of apology in her tone. “Your son has refused. He says she is already engaged.” She held out Wahidi’s gift.
“Yes, she is,” my mother said politely. “I cannot accept his proposal. Please convey my regret that Rukhsana is betrothed and we must honor our word. He will understand.”
The burka turned, not to leave, but to see where Jahan and I were. By the door, a safe distance away, Dr. Hanifa had returned to her chair, just out of earshot. Droon’s wife stepped closer to the bed, bent over, and whispered to my mother before turning away.
“I have tried,” my mother said aloud.
We made way for Droon’s wife and she retreated from the room and stood quietly in the corridor. She stood with a resigned air of patience, as if trained to obey commands, the melancholy folds of her burka hanging lifeless around her.
Jahan and I followed the two policemen from room to room. The elder, with a gray beard, led his younger colleague, a man in his twenties. They wore frayed green uniforms and carried machine guns slung across their chests. I trailed well beyond the lamp’s light, clothed in darkness. They opened doors, walked into rooms, and then returned to the hall empty-handed.
The policemen went to my room. They stood in the door, surveying the bed, the posters, the cupboard, the desk. In the opening pages of The Gulag Archipelago, Solzhenitsyn wrote that “the police come always at night when we’re befuddled from sleep and vulnerable to their sudden descent on the sleeper.” His police wore jackboots to trample on his books, clothes, and other objects. My police wore sandals, but they moved with the same brutish arrogance. They moved first to the cupboard, only because it was shut. They flung open the doors, revealing my kurtas, skirts, and blouses, and in the lower shelves many pairs of high-heeled shoes, dusty with disuse. They pulled out my clothes and emptied the shelves onto the floor.
They studied my bookshelf, most of the titles in English and also Dari. They lost interest, as they were looking for Rukhsana and not dissident writings—those would undoubtedly be dealt with later by my new husband. They looked at my posters, reached up, and pulled them down.
“Forbidden,” they chorused, and tore both posters into halves and then quarters before scattering the pieces on the floor. Thankfully, they weren’t the religious police. They left, kicking away an offending shoe. We followed them to Jahan’s room and watched them rip up the Shaquille O’Neal poster too, and Jahan blankly accepted the fate of his hero’s image. They shook a finger under his nose. “Be careful,” a warning, and meant kindly for the young boy.
They searched the rooms in the basement and opened Grandfather’s storeroom and shone their torches on the rows of books. We remained still, praying they wouldn’t start pulling them out. One even went to peer at them, but like most of our police, he was illiterate.
“Law books,” Jahan said to distract them.
They stepped back into the corridor, leaving the door ajar, and Jahan closed it. Then they saw the granite slab and chuckled to each other. “We found it,” they chorused in triumph. One held the torch, the other knelt, and, using his knife, levered up the slab. The torch shone into the empty hole. He let the stone fall back with a thud, dusted his hands, and, in disappointment, both climbed the stairs. Droon’s wife followed, still carrying her gift, with Jahan and me behind. I didn’t step out of the compound with them but remained by the gate. I peered through the slat. Droon’s wife got into the car, while Droon climbed out.
“She is not in the house,” one of the policemen said to Droon, and added proudly, “We found the secret cellar too but it was empty.”
Droon approached Jahan and stopped a foot away. “My brother is in Kandahar and will return to Kabul for the cricket match. She must be back within that time. I hope she does not try to cross any border. The guards have been told to look for her.” He moved to the car and, as if he had second thoughts, stopped. “If she does not appear to marry my brother, you will be arrested and imprisoned in Pul-e-Charkhi prison for defying the police.”
“But I’ve done nothing,” Jahan said in a shaken voice.
“You are her mahram; you are responsible for all her actions. And we will imprison your mother too. My brother can be merciful, if you agree to the marriage.”
“It must have Rukhsana’s consent too.” Jahan still had some defiance.
“She will consent. She will not refuse my brother.” He smiled. “Or if she is too stupid, she will be arrested for reporting lies about her country in the world media. A few years in prison will help her to learn to love her country again.”
He retreated to the car and a policeman hurried to open the door. He climbed in, and once more, for a brief second, I saw the upright burka beside him before it dissolved into the darkness. We remained watching the bouncing taillights until the car turned the corner. The policemen climbed into the back of the Land Cruiser and the sleeping driver woke and followed Droon’s car.
“Pul-e-Charkhi,” Jahan whispered in dread.
We remembered Grandfather telling us about it after he had visited a prisoner there. He looked a different man, older, wan and weary, on his return. He told us in a shaky voice, “I have seen hell and it is shaped like a huge cartwheel, with spokes leading to the prison blocks. It is crowded with men who have no reason to be there. Many are just small shopkeepers who have the misfortune to be Uzbeks. Others are in there on trumped-up political charges. I pray only that I do not end up there too one day. There are eighteen blocks and each block has a hundred and sixteen cells and each cell holds forty to fifty men packed like animals for slaughter. The prisoners are allowed to use the toilets only twice a day. One hundred and fifty Talibs guard the prison and they flog and torture the men daily for the pleasure they get from seeing such suffering. Many of the younger men are raped for days then thrown back into the cells, too ashamed to tell anyone what happened to them. Many prisoners die of starvation or torture and the Talibs take them to hospitals and declare they died of an illness, so as to pass on the blame. And even in prison, the corruption is unbelievable. The Talibs have grown immensely rich from the suffering of these men. They imprisoned my client Hassan because he wouldn’t pay a bribe. I have filed papers for his release, but I don’t hold out much hope of freein
g him. They would not permit me to visit the women’s section, and I fear there is even worse treatment there.”
We still remembered Grandfather’s drawn face as he told us the story.
We trudged upstairs, our steps heavy with the weight of such suffering, and returned to Mother’s room.
“What did she say to you?” I asked.
“Yes, what did that little girl whisper?” Dr. Hanifa was also curious.
“She was forced to marry Droon when he threatened to kill her father if he didn’t give his consent. She has not seen her family since then, and she said that you must get out of the country if you want to save yourself. They are cruel men.” She stretched out her hand and I took it. “Listen to her, if not to me. You must leave me.”
“I have less than three weeks, and before then I know Shaheen will send for me—I’ve just written to him again. I will leave that very day.”
“But what if he does not get back to you in time? How will you get out then?”
“I’ll find a smuggler to get me into Pakistan and wait there for Shaheen to contact me.”
Then she said fiercely, “You cannot marry that Talib. I will not permit it, nor would your father. But we’re helpless.”
We couldn’t bear to tell her about Droon’s threat to imprison us if I did not marry Wahidi.
“You can’t marry him,” Jahan said. “I refuse to give permission.”
“You can’t,” Dr. Hanifa added.
Suddenly nauseated, I felt his breath on my face, his bristle against my cheeks, his odor suffocating my nostrils. I was property with no rights; I had been purchased, no different from a whore. I imagined his body pressed upon me. I cannot cry out; no one can hear me, and even if they do, they won’t come to my aid. I twist and turn but cannot escape the weight holding me down.
“I better go home,” Dr. Hanifa said, rising. “I’ll have Abdul walk me to my gate.” She checked Mother’s pulse. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Get her to sleep, Rukhsana, and be very careful.” She went out muttering about the Talibs.
Mother’s instant of anger sapped her energy and she sank back into the pillows, reaching for our hands. “Rukhsana, you should not have postponed the engagement and marriage to Shaheen. I know you wanted to work before you married, but you would have been safe. You would be in America now.”
The Taliban Cricket Club Page 11