“I just told you, we’re not doing it for money,” Jahan said testily. “We love the game, and our cousins wanted to learn it, and that’s enough for us.”
“Twenty then, and no more.”
“No.”
“Can’t he answer?” Azlam stared at me intently.
“He has a very sore throat and a fever,” Jahan said, ending the negotiations and nudging me toward our gate.
“Twenty-five, and that’s the last offer,” Azlam called out.
“We’re going to win the match,” Jahan called back.
“We’ll see,” Azlam shouted and started his bike. He roared up the road, gunning it as he passed us.
“What’s he going to do now?” I said, looking after him.
“What can he do? Just lose to us.”
Abdul had opened the gate to see who was shouting.
“Have you seen that motorbike before?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Once or twice. It could be the same one, but I can’t tell the difference.”
“Any letters, packages?” I asked.
“No. Don’t worry, they will come.”
When we went in, Dr. Hanifa heard us and came out of Mother’s room. Even in the gloom, we could read her face.
“She’s sleeping, and I gave her dinner. I’ve increased the dosage of morphine. You’ll have to give her another injection if she wakes.” She touched my face, and then Jahan’s, and we understood the message: death was speeding toward our mother and we would be orphaned very soon.
Jahan went out to walk Dr. Hanifa home. I cooked dinner, kebabs, rice, and a salad, a simple meal for both of us and for Abdul to eat in his quarters. When Jahan returned, we ate, and midway through we heard the telephone, crying out like a lost child. Jahan hurried to answer it and I listened to someone call “Hello” again and again until he gave up.
“Who was it?”
“Sounded like a man, but all I could hear was his hellos. Stupid phone.”
“Shaheen?” I asked hopefully.
“No, I’d know his voice, even in a hello.”
“Was it Uncle?”
“No, I’d recognize his hellos. It was a stranger’s voice.”
“Long distance?”
“There was such a buzzing on the line, it was hard to tell.”
As we rose from the floor, Abdul knocked on the door and, without thinking, I ran down the stairs and waited in the well, poised to sprint into the secret room.
A Short Note
I HEARD THE FRONT DOOR OPEN AND THE MURMUR of voices.
Jahan called down softly, “Stay where you are. It’s Uncle Jaweid with Auntie Badria.”
Badria was Shaheen’s third cousin on his father’s side. It had to be a good omen. Shaheen had sent the money and papers to them and they had come to hand them over. I could leave tomorrow, if I wanted. I sat and waited in the dark.
Jaweid was a thin man, always with a frown of worry creasing his forehead; Badria, as thin, had her lips clamped in disapproval. I thought they would enter, but they remained just inside the door despite Jahan’s invitation to have tea. “No, no, we just had tea,” Jaweid’s protesting voice. Then another rumble of words and Jahan, “Maadar’s not well . . . sleeping now.” A silence. “We came to see Rukhsana . . .” And Jahan replying, “. . . Mazar . . . back soon . . .” Then Badria’s higher tone; she had a quarrelsome voice that always grated, “This came for Rukhsana this afternoon and we came straightaway. Shaheen asked . . . give her this . . .”
I clung tightly to her words and waited impatiently for them to leave.
“Buses are so bad . . . long waits . . .” Badria had a litany of complaints.
Finally, I heard the door close and I crept up the stairs. Jahan was holding a letter, not a package, and gave it to me. My name was on the envelope. I went to sit on the bottom stair, weighing it carefully. I held it up to the light and saw the outline of a sheet of paper.
“It could be a check inside,” Jahan said.
“It could be.”
I gently prised open the flap, slid out the sheet of paper, and read it. I remained holding the letter until Jahan took it from my hand.
Dear Rukhsana,
Thank you for your letter. It was good to hear from you, finally. Your mother’s illness saddens me deeply and I pray that she recovers and is well soon. As I had not heard from you, and did not know whether you would ever come to America, my parents believed I could not wait much longer. You had postponed our engagement three times, and as much as I very much wanted our marriage, I have to obey my father. I married a good Afghan girl here. Her father was a great help to my father in settling in America and setting up a business together. As I now have such financial commitments to my family, I will not be able to send you the money that you requested. I pray you find another person who can be of more help than I can. Please forgive me.
My good wishes to your mother and Jahan.
With affection,
Shaheen
Jahan and I sat in silence. He reread the letter in the hope that we had misinterpreted the simple message.
“I didn’t think he’d get married,” I said angrily. “I didn’t think he’d ever not send for me. We were committed to each other.” I took the letter, crushed it into a ball, and hurled it down the hall.
“He let us down, and broke his word,” Jahan said angrily. “He should have informed us before and not told us after. He has no honor.”
“Don’t tell Maadar, it will only worry her even more.”
He put an arm around me and drew me close. We felt like two small children lost in a huge, dark, menacing world. “What do we do now?”
“I’ll have to borrow as much money as I can to pay the smuggler. I’ll wait for you in Pakistan.” And then what would I do with my life in that limbo?
I was tired after a day of such tension and bitter disappointment and went down to the hidden room. I left the door open and slept the moment I lay down and dreamed of Zorak Wahidi again.
SURPRISINGLY, DESPITE THE DARK dreams, I woke feeling lighter, afloat in my bed, halfway to the ceiling. For a moment, I couldn’t understand my sense of euphoria and lay luxuriating in it. I sat up. Of course. I was alone and I had lost my way out of the country for now, but I was free, the burden of my commitment to my family through this marriage, and to Shaheen, was gone. I could do what I wanted now—I could marry whom I wanted. Veer. I would call him now, this instant, and went down to Father’s office. I tapped the Delhi number into the phone. But what should I tell him? Veer, I am free? I put the phone down. He hadn’t replied to my letter sent two or three months ago; I couldn’t remember the exact day I’d mailed it. Was I too late, again? Had he lost patience and married? Even now, he could be writing his letter telling me, but couching it in gentler tones than Shaheen’s. This one would break my heart into tiny pieces. I bit my nails. I tried to imagine our conversation. Veer, it’s me, Rukhsana, how are you? Fine. How are you? Fine. No, I’m not. You must help me get out, I don’t have much time and I need money for a smuggler. Did you get my last letter? Yes, I meant to reply but . . . but . . .
It didn’t matter—I had to tell him, now. I sat up determinedly and made the call. Even if married, at least because of our love he would send me money. I was the beggar again. I pressed redial, and each time, I only connected to a dull hum. I stopped when I heard the sound of a distant motorbike pass the house then fade away. Azlam wasn’t the only one in the city to own one, but I could only think it was him, watching us. I wondered when Droon would return to make his demands, impatient with waiting, taking Jahan to prison. I redialed and held my breath as I heard a ringing phone.
A man picked up. “Quanhai?” He was a servant.
I replied in Hindi, “I want to speak to Veer sahib.”
I heard the dreaded response. “Veer sahib out. Who is memsahib?”
I hesitated, not wanting to commit my name to this man. “Tell him, tell him I call from Kabul. You understand, Kabul.”
> It took him a long moment. “You are Kabul memsahib? I will tell him.”
“When will he return?”
“I don’t know, memsahib.”
We both disconnected. I sat at the desk, wondering how long I should wait. All day? All week? My life was spent waiting, and each day the knot in my stomach tightened. I gave it a half hour and left when the call wasn’t returned. I had to go to practice. I left the door slightly ajar to hear the phone, and stained my face, thickened my brows, affixed the beard, and put on my turban.
There was a week left to practice. We had to win; there was no other escape for Jahan. I drove them harder, criticizing each ball bowled, sneering at every batsman.
Royan rebelled. “What’s happened? Why are you so angry with us?”
“I’m not angry,” I said. “You’re not trying hard enough. You have to beat Azlam’s team and that state team.” Then I announced it. “He’s offered me a lot of money to coach his team.”
“When was that?” Parwaaze said, startled. “What did you say?”
“What do you think I said?” I let them wait, holding their breath. “You’re my family, a lazy family, and I told him I didn’t want his money.”
“He wasn’t happy about that,” Jahan said. “He even went up to twenty-five thousand.”
Although it sounded astronomical, it was only a few dollars depending on that day’s rate of exchange.
“So he is d-desperate,” Qubad said.
“Desperate enough to hire anyone else he can find in the next week,” I said. “Unless you want to lose to him, you’ll have to work harder, you have to be as good as you all can be.” I tossed the ball to Namdar. “Let’s not waste any more time.”
ON OUR WAY HOME from practice the next evening, we shopped for food. “No letter, package,” said Abdul as we came through the gate.
“They won’t come,” I said.
Upstairs, I visited Mother. Pain had drawn ugly graffiti on her face, but now in sleep it had been erased, and her beauty surfaced, a gift for us to remember her by. We watched her shallow breaths, counting them; breathing along with her.
“Did anyone call?” I asked Dr. Hanifa.
“I didn’t hear the phone ring. My hearing’s bad anyway,” she said, packing up.
Jahan went to walk Dr. Hanifa home. “I’m going over to Parwaaze’s to watch a Bollywood film. Do you want to come?”
“Don’t watch the movie, watch the cricket tape again and again. You know the team must win the match, so don’t let them waste time.”
“They need to relax, even I do.”
“Do it when we’ve escaped.”
I remained awake in my room until I heard Jahan return, then went down to the basement and my stuffy cell. I left the door open and lay down.
Jahan woke me when it wasn’t yet dawn.
“Shut the door,” he whispered, shaking me, and his urgency brought me wide awake. “The police are banging at the gate.”
The Visitors
I CLOSED AND LOCKED THE DOOR. THE SILENCE hummed in my ears as I strained to hear any sounds.
Wahidi was out there, he had come for me. I gave into fear and collapsed on the divan, curling tightly into a ball. In such darkness, my imagination soared out of the hiding place, seeing Jahan defying the commander, and the men dragging him away to Pul-e-Charkhi, where other men waited to violate him.
I uncurled and sat up. What if he decided to shoot Jahan?
His death would kill Mother more certainly than the cancer. I knew what I would do then: I would lock all the doors, bar all the windows and close the curtains, slide shut the bolt of my room door, perform a final namaaz, and die quietly.
JAHAN TOLD ME LATER what had happened.
Abdul had awakened finally at the incessant bangs and shouts. Jahan heard him call out, “What is happening?”
“Open the gate, you stupid man.”
“What do you want?” Abdul told them. “Look at the time. Come back later.”
“I’ll shoot you if you don’t open the gate,” the policeman shouted.
“So shoot. I’m an old man and my time will come sooner or later. I must ask my master whether to open it or not.”
“You’re a dead man.”
“Open the gate, Abdul,” Jahan called out to him, saving him from a bullet.
Taking his time, Abdul pulled back the three bolts—the bottom, the middle, and finally the top—that secured the small gate, while the policeman cursed him for being so slow. He pushed the gate, sending Abdul back, tripping, and stalked into the compound followed by two more policemen. They all had torches. Droon entered behind them.
“Next time, I will shoot.”
“Next time, I’ll probably be dead already,” Abdul said.
They ran up the steps to the door, shining their torches in Jahan’s face, and he had to shield his eyes. He thought they looked like the same policemen as before, but he wasn’t sure.
“What do you want?” Jahan asked.
“You know what we want,” Droon said, remaining by the gate. “Tell him.”
“We’re here to take Rukhsana, daughter of Gulab, for questioning,” the policeman said.
“On what charges?” Jahan asked in his most authoritative voice.
The policeman giggled. “We’ll think of them later.”
“She’s not here. She’s visiting our uncle in Mazar-e-Sharif.”
“Search the house,” Droon ordered.
“We will search,” the policeman said brusquely and pushed past Jahan.
“My mother is sleeping. You mustn’t disturb her.”
“We’ll see her.”
He first took them to Mother’s room and permitted only one to enter.
“Not in her face,” he ordered. “It will waken her.” And the torch shone respectfully on the ceiling, throwing enough light on Mother to see her. He followed them into my room and the torches lit up a neat bed with plumped pillows awaiting a tired head. They went from room to room, slashing at the darkness, and then down to the basement. They opened Grandfather’s storeroom and ran their light across the dusty books before shutting the door. They remembered the cellar and heaved up the slab then closed it.
When they went out, Droon was waiting. “Where is she?” he asked Jahan. He looked as if he wanted to strangle him, but he stopped himself. Jahan said that was very scary. I suppose he was thinking he couldn’t kill his future brother-in-law. “My brother, the minister, has written to me asking about the progress on his marriage proposal. He is getting impatient and so am I.”
“I told you, she’s in Mazar-e-Sharif,” Jahan said.
“Like a child repeating a lesson,” Droon mocked him. “As her maadar is not well, why would she be so far away? She must be in the city, staying with cousins. Tell me their names.”
“Which ones? We have a hundred and five here,” Jahan said, exaggerating. “I’m happy to give you a list, but you won’t find her with any of them.”
“I’ll find her. Don’t forget Pul-e-Charkhi.”
Droon signaled the police and they followed him out to the Land Cruiser and he got in. Abdul and Jahan waited in silence until the engines had faded into the darkness; they remained waiting, believing the police and Droon could circle back again, before it would be safe for me to come up from my hiding place.
When Jahan finished telling me what had happened, he sat beside me on the divan in the pitch blackness.
“You’ll have to stay in this room,” he said. “You can’t move around, except when it’s dark, and even then be ready to run here.”
I remembered Noorzia’s advice: defy them in your heart and mind. “No. I won’t be locked in this room all day. I’ll stay in the house and creep around like a mouse, but I must be able to look after Maadar. I’ll only leave here the day before the first match, just to make sure you’re ready.”
“What should I tell them when you don’t come with me?”
“I sprained my ankle,” I said shortly, frustrated and
angry at being frightened by Droon.
“And don’t take off your beard or turban when you do move,” Jahan said and left me to my perpetual night. Unlike the Russian police, Droon did not believe that night brought the most fear. He preferred the early dawn, while a man still slept, lost in his dreams, believing he was safe. To awaken the sleeper suddenly disoriented him or her, frightened him, and that was the time when he yielded his secrets.
THE NEXT DAY WE didn’t whisper a word about the night’s invasion to Mother. She had slept, heavily sedated, and the torchlight hadn’t disturbed her. I hovered like a frightened wraith in her room, ready to sprint downstairs at the slightest sound on the street. A cyclist’s bell, a car’s horn, or a raised voice and I was four steps down to the basement. I was angry that Droon made me tremble with such fear, but I was helpless to stop the shaking. I avoided the windows as I moved around. We told Abdul to lock the gates and we locked our doors. If Droon returned to break in, I would have time to hide, I hoped. Jahan was as free as ever and went off to the university grounds. After practice, he went to the homes of our cousins, borrowing the money I needed to escape. Parwaaze and Qubad’s family gave the most, 150 dollars each; the others, needier, gave what they could to help us. By Wednesday the nineteenth, three days before the preliminary matches, we had a total of nine hundred dollars, enough for Juniad to run me over the border. Friday night would be my last in my childhood home, and my uncertain future hung over me like an executioner’s sword. I knew no one in Pakistan to give me shelter and comfort; I would wander from place to place, waiting for Jahan, waiting for someone to help me. I could register as a refugee and end up in a crowded camp, a single woman, and vulnerable, among the many families. I’d eat what charity gave me and drink the contaminated water and live in my unwashed clothes for months, maybe years, until the Taliban were driven out and I could return home. But I didn’t see them loosening their vicious grip on the country for many years.
The day passed in this panic-filled way. I listened for the telephone. It didn’t sound all day. The servant had probably forgotten to give the message to Veer and I was too depressed to try again. Jahan and I carried the dinner I’d cooked into Mother’s room. We followed the rituals of custom and Jahan and I lied about our day, telling her about cricket, shopping, books I read to pass the time. We didn’t tell her I’d spent the whole day at home. The lantern cast only a small yellow halo of light around us as we ate. Above and beyond it, such a frail flame could not lift the weight of the darkness. At least it was steady in this closed room and shadows didn’t leap and dance menacingly around us.
The Taliban Cricket Club Page 20