The Taliban Cricket Club

by Timeri N. Murari

  I looked numbly at the unmade bed, and the table cluttered with medications and syringes. I emptied them into a wastebasket. I lay on the edge of the bed, as I always had, and caressed the indentation in the pillow, breathing in her spirit. It had not left yet. When I heard the gates open and the murmur of approaching mourning voices, I closed the door; the click of the latch sounded so final. I retreated down to the basement.

  “Where’s Rukhsana? Why isn’t she here?” Qubad’s mother.

  “In Mazar, I called her . . .” Jahan.

  “She should have been here, beside her madaar.” Parwaaze’s mother scolded in between crying.

  “She’ll be here as soon as she can.” Jahan.

  “Her madaar’s more important than a wedding . . . very uncaring girl . . .” Daud’s father.

  Others spoke too, men and women, as they crowded into the house. I wanted to walk up and tell them all, “I’m here.” But Mother whispered her reminder in my ears, “Keep your mouth shut.” And I clamped my ears against hearing the censure heaped on my head.

  Although it was Friday, Mother had to be buried as soon as possible. I listened to the muffled sounds above my head and the weeping increase as they carried Mother out to the waiting van. Her spirit, which had filled this home and sustained me for so many years, even from her sickbed, accompanied her and slipped out the door. I was, for the first time, alone in our house, a child abandoned. I leaned against the wall for support, slid down to sit, clutching my knees tightly, bending my head, protecting myself from the loneliness.

  I knew the rituals from the past. The men would carry the body to our local mosque, a small, unpretentious building only slightly damaged. A few bullet holes were lodged in its side and there was a large crack in the dome. The women would wait in an adjoining hall. Jahan and his cousins would lower Mother’s body to the floor, just within the entrance of the mosque. The old mullah, who knew the family, would slowly move to them, dragging his left foot, clutching the holy book. “This is a woman,” he would announce to all within hearing. He would not remove the covering on her face, and would pray over the body. The brief ritual over, the funeral procession of men would move along Asamayi Wat. They would travel in silence along the dusty road, steadying the body for the bumps and ruts in the road.

  I listened; something had fallen—a cup, a book—carelessly left on the edge of a table.

  I returned to my thoughts, accompanying my mother to her grave. The procession would take half an hour to reach the cemetery, which began by the roadside. It sloped gently up the hill, forested with headstones, some protected by iron railings, and one day the graves would reach the summit and flow down the other side. The van would turn onto a narrow road, with graves on either side, a carpet of mounds, headstones, and iron railings protecting the graves of the more affluent. Halfway way up the slope, hidden by a grove of trees, was a small shrine. I thought Mother would lie, looking down at the city she had loved, and wished Father lay beside her too. To love and then be separated by such a distance in death saddened me. One day, we would disinter Mother and take her to lie near her husband, or at least in the same cemetery. But now, they would have dug a fresh grave and lowered her body into it so that her head pointed toward Mecca. Then Jahan would—

  I stopped.

  The zanaana door was opening upstairs, sly, hesitant, menacing. A whisper of feet. Then another door opened, the latch loud as the safety flicked off a weapon, and another sound of feet. I remained glued against the wall, unable to free myself. There were thieves in the house. They had mingled with the crowd of mourners, knowing that in the confusion they could remain hidden.

  “She could have gone to the funeral too,” a woman said, not even whispering. I recognized the voice. The one who had claimed to be my friend.

  “We’re searching there too,” a man replied. “We’ll start from the top, see if you can find anything that will tell us where she is.”

  When I heard them climb, unhurried, knowing they had hours of privacy, talking to each other as if on the street, I managed to stand with the wall’s support. I edged away from the stairs—the faintest sound would carry—and moved to the storeroom. Above, I heard them opening a door. I waited, then, as gently as I could, inch by inch, I twisted the handle and stepped into the room. I closed it as quietly as possible and in the darkness finally started breathing again. Panting for air, I crossed to the secret room, the door ajar, a sepia glow of light coming from it, and locked myself in. I sat on the divan, still sucking in air. I controlled myself, silencing even the sound of my breathing. These were not illiterate policemen and I stared at the frail door protecting me, expecting it to crash open. I didn’t move, as even the sound of a sleeve brushing my arm sounded so loud. I don’t know how long it took them before I heard their murmurings in the basement. The storeroom door opened.

  “Nothing but useless books,” the woman said. “They should be burned.”

  I didn’t hear it close and I sensed she was prowling among the books, reading titles, pulling them out.

  “There’s a cellar here,” the man called to her.

  I heard her leave and then the man grunting to pry open the granite slab.

  “Empty,” the woman said in disgust and the slab fell back into place, causing the floor to vibrate. “She’ll have to be back soon for the other ceremonies.”

  I didn’t hear them leave; they could be standing still, as alert as predators waiting for the prey to run. I was uncomfortable, my legs cramping from the tension, but I wouldn’t move. Stay still, stay still, they’re listening.

  They were there, at the outer door. They had found the secret latch. Who had told them? The door opened slowly. I shrank back.

  “Rukhsana!” Jahan was faintly outlined in the frame. When I couldn’t move, he knelt in front of me. “Are you okay?”

  “Two of them were here,” I said, surprised by my own calm. “The woman who said she was a friend and the man with her. They searched for me.” I stretched up my hands. “Help me up, I think I have a cramp in my legs.” He held and steadied me as I stretched. “They weren’t here when you came in?”

  “No.” He helped me walk. “The police went into the women’s hall searching for you. A woman went with them. She wanted all the women to reveal their faces, and they were angry at being disturbed on such a sad occasion. But they had to when the police threatened them.”

  “I want to see her grave one day.”

  “We must place a marble headstone on it,” he said and then went on. He gestured dejectedly. “Now there’s a police car parked opposite our gate.”

  The Dead End

  JAHAN TRUDGED UPSTAIRS TO WAIT FOR MOURNERS to pay their respects. I knew death was draining, it stole a part of the living to take into the next world as memory, and we needed to mourn Mother alone, but that would have to wait.

  I was exhausted by the end of the day. I broke into tears each time I thought of my mother, trying to make believe she had just gone to visit a friend and would return home soon. Now I waited for Veer’s money to save me.

  I returned to the room and lay down. I started to fall asleep, praying to escape the pain that pursued me with the same lethal zeal as Wahidi. I had forgotten him until his name and image detonated through the grinding plates of grieving to surface in my consciousness. I paused in my sad flight, a bird struck by a catapult’s stone, tumbling down to the earth. And then as my vision grew darker, Mother appeared, smiling and opening her arms. I slipped into those arms and Mother rose, carrying me into a blue sky. We were laughing as we flew . . .

  “Rukhsana,” Jahan called from a distance, and I sat up.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly five. Noorzia wants to see you.”

  “Are you sure it’s her?”

  “Of course. I recognize her voice.” He waited patiently for my decision.

  Should I see her? Why had she come? I wanted to feel her invigorating presence that had filled me with defiance before. “She can�
��t see me in this room. We’ll meet in the corridor.”

  I followed him out, closing both the doors, and waited for her. She swept down the stairs with such elegance, despite the burka. I knew that only she could move with such confidence.

  “My Babur,” she said, removing the garment to reveal her stylish self beneath it. Designer jeans, a silk blouse, perfumed, touching her hair back into place. She brought her own light into this gloomy hallway, and when she opened her arms, I went into them.

  “I did not know about your mother. I am so sorry.”

  “It was a release from her suffering,” I managed to say.

  She drew back and caressed my beard. “It’s kept its shape.”

  “It’s my lifesaver.”

  “I came to say good-bye. I am leaving tonight and couldn’t go without seeing you.”

  “You have your ticket and papers?” I said, suppressing my envy.

  “Yes.” She laughed, and then stopped. “I couldn’t find Juniad to take me. No one knows where he is, and I have to leave.”

  “Jahan tried to find him too. So how will you go?”

  “Remember? I told you about my uncle. He has an old car and he’s said he’ll drive me. He knows the passes well. He will take me to Karachi and from there I’ll fly to Colombo and then to Melbourne. I’ll be married there. Now, what about you?”

  I told her everything that had happened until the moment she came in and she listened gravely.

  “You have nothing to keep you here now. Go, go quickly to Veer.” She stopped and clapped her hands. “I know. You come with me right now. Be my Babur and I’ll have two mahrams.”

  Her excitement was contagious and I didn’t hesitate a moment. “I can perform Maadar’s third-day ceremony in a mosque in another country.” I hesitated, the practical raising its objections. “But I don’t have enough money yet.”

  “I have enough for food for us on the journey and we can share a hotel room in Karachi. But I can’t loan you any.”

  “By then the money will be here and Jahan can bring it when they win the match.” I sobered from the intoxicating feelings. “If they win. I told you Qubad can’t play, and he was a big hitter for us. Now they have to find just another body to make up the eleven.”

  “So? If they lose, Jahan can use the money to join you.”

  “You’re right. The others will be bitterly disappointed though.”

  She grabbed my hand. “Come on, we mustn’t waste time. The police car in the road will think of you as just another male mourner leaving the house.” She put on her burka. “Oh, to see the world without blinkers.”

  We hurried to the stairs. I needed my passport, which was in Father’s study, and I wanted to say good-bye to Jahan, Dr. Hanifa, and Abdul. My life was reduced to these essentials. I would call Veer from Karachi and tell him that I was on my way.

  We were halfway up, giggling like schoolgirls, when we met Jahan coming down.

  “At least someone sounds happy.” He managed a smile through his mourning and looked down at me. “Veer’s waiting to see you.”

  No Greater Love . . .

  “VEER!” MY HAND FLEW TO COVER MY MOUTH TO hide both the panic and the smile fighting to shape my lips. “Oh god, I didn’t expect him. He’s Nargis’s brother and—”

  Noorzia breathed his name as I did, “Veer.”

  “I know who he is,” Jahan said.

  “What do you know?”

  “Mother told me.” And when he saw the surprise in my face, he smiled. “Everything. You’re not the only one who talked to her and held her hand. We talked. She told me he had phoned and spoken to you. Why didn’t you tell me all this?”

  “Because . . . because I was afraid.”

  “Of me?”

  “Yes.”

  He frowned, puzzling over the remark. “I was angry when Mother told me, but only because you hadn’t,” he admitted. “I promised her I would look after you, and I’ll keep that promise. Why didn’t you trust me?”

  “I do, but sometimes men are difficult to understand, and I wasn’t sure. Your mind was set on my marriage to Shaheen.”

  “I thought that was what you wanted.”

  “No. That’s what the family wanted.”

  “I will never understand you.” He smiled. “You better see him . . .”

  Noorzia pushed past Jahan, taking his hand as she went up. “You two are the only ones left in this family and you mustn’t squabble. Obey each other’s wishes.” She laughed. “Now, I have to meet Veer, I can’t leave without doing that.”

  “I can’t like this . . .” I looked down at my crumpled shalwar, touched my bearded face, and sniffed my body. I hadn’t bathed, only washed quickly, as I was afraid I’d be trapped in the bathroom. “Give me five minutes . . .”

  “No five minutes,” Noorzia said. “You can’t beautify yourself into Rukhsana, and I don’t have the time. Where is he?”

  “In the mardaana.”

  “May I enter?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer and crossed the hall. I followed quickly, now pushing Jahan aside. My Veer was here. I was a step behind Noorzia and saw a bearded man, wearing a black turban, a white, crumpled, dusty shalwar, and an equally rumpled coat.

  He came to his feet lightly, moving toward Noorzia’s covered shape. “Rukhsana . . .”

  Noorzia’s laughter stopped him. It wasn’t my laugh. “I’m not Rukhsana, and now I wish I was. She’s the youth behind me.”

  I was still at the doorway, watching him, devouring him, and felt an overwhelming need to be held and protected by him. I didn’t know what to say except that I loved him.

  “Rukhsana?” He stepped around Noorzia, ignoring Jahan, to stop a foot before me.

  He held out his arms to embrace me, and I wanted to run into them and have him hold me. Then our laughter was stifled as we remembered Mother. Instead of embracing me, Veer placed his palms together in the Hindu act of obeisance, and bowed his head. “I am very saddened, Rukhsana. Please accept my deepest condolences. I wish I could have met her.”

  “So do I.” I took a step closer to him and placed my palms on either side of his. Just the touch was exhilarating.

  He looked up and saw my eyes and the shape of my mouth emerge from out of the shadows and the beard. “I’ve waited so long to see you, and you’ve grown a beard since I saw you last.” He had the same smile I remembered. “I’ll take you even with that beard.”

  “And so have you . . .” We both reached to touch the hair on each other’s faces. “If you tug mine, it will come off.”

  “Then I will.”

  “No, you can’t, not yet.” But I did tug on his.

  “It’s my own. I hadn’t shaved for a month and was going to when we talked. The beard is mandatory here, so I kept it.”

  I remembered my letter and slowly ran my finger from his brow to the tip of his nose, meaning to land it on his lips for a kiss.

  Noorzia coughed gently and broke our aura. “I have to go.”

  I stepped back, having forgotten her. “I’ll come to the door . . .”

  “And no further now.” She embraced me tightly and whispered, “Go with him.”

  “I will. You will keep in touch? Where will I find you?”

  She opened her purse and took out a scrap of paper. “That’s my friend’s address and phone number in Melbourne.”

  “Khoda haafez,” we said to each other and she hurried out with Jahan.

  I forgot her again the next moment as Veer kissed me, gently, the second we were alone. Just the soft brush of his mouth and I pressed against him, having waited so long in my dreary solitude.

  “I’ll get tea,” Jahan called out.

  We remained in an embrace, both afraid to let go in case we would never find each other again. We both thought the same thing: I love you, I love you.

  I pulled away to whisper the words and then had to tell him, “Veer, Veer, I don’t believe you’re here, holding me, but you shouldn’t have come. It’s da
ngerous if they find you here.”

  “I had to deliver my letter,” he said and pulled out a creased envelope. “The one I was writing and meant to post if I could find a postbox in the Amazon.” Out of another pocket he pulled a roll of dollar bills. “Your beard’s driving me crazy, and that turban . . .” He swept it off my head and looked astonished. “I loved touching your hair, brushing it off your face . . .” He ran his hand over the cropped hair and opened it to the air.

  “Noorzia,” I said and took off his turban, his hair falling over his brow. “At least yours is still there.” I brushed it back and kissed him. “Tell me what you wrote.”

  “That I love you . . . that I’ll do whatever it takes to be with you . . . that there are nights I dream you’re beside me . . .”

  “I dream too . . . we’re close and touching . . .” I touched his face. “We’re not dreaming, are we? I’m not going to wake up and find myself in that dark room . . .”

  “No, we’re not. Even if we are, we’re in the same dream and we’ll wake together.”

  “How’s Nargis?” I remembered to ask.

  “She sends her love and her prayers for us.”

  We parted only when we heard Jahan pushing on the door. Veer led me to sit beside him on the divan, his hold tight on my hand in case I flew out the window. I drank the tea greedily, my throat parched from the fear an hour back and now with the love that swelled my tongue.