by Atia Abawi
We start sipping our tea as the boys make their way out of the maymon khana. “I am sorry for not coming sooner. I should try to come every few days,” I say, breaking the silence.
“Don’t be silly. For me, not seeing you was a good thing,” he says. “It meant you were moving on with your life and settling into what I hope is a good one. I don’t expect you to visit me often. Let go of these formalities. Yes, I am an old man, but that doesn’t mean everyone has to stop living to make me happy. I wish more people with my color beard would realize this. Maybe there would be less blame and fewer hurt feelings.” He shakes his head disapprovingly while sipping tea. “But now that you’re here, I’m beginning to worry, my son. Is everything okay?”
“Please don’t worry. I don’t mean to make you worry,” I say, and quickly sip my chai.
“There is something wrong, isn’t there?” Mullah Sarwar asks. He leans in closer, and it feels as though his hazel eyes can see through my own and straight into the depths of my soul. The secrets I hold there suddenly feel exposed. “What troubles you, my son?”
I want to keep quiet out of fear. I can’t take my words back once they’re released. But I also know he’s the only one I trust to help. So I open my mouth and begin to speak. My emotions are hard to confine, and I explain everything to Mullah Sarwar. I emphasize the fact that Fatima just sees me as a friend—it is I who sees her as something more—though as I say it, I wonder if I’m lying about her feelings. I tell him that I don’t want to taint her name in any way, but I fear it may be too late. And that it is all my fault, for asking her to meet me alone, for spending time with her when I knew what it would mean.
“Do you love her?” Mullah Sarwar asks.
I flinch. For some reason, I didn’t expect that question. I suddenly feel even more uncomfortable, not because Mullah Sarwar is asking it, but because I’ve never really spoken about love to anyone. Not about Fatima, not even about my own mother. But I think about what I said to God this morning. About the way seeing Fatima can brighten my day. About how I dream of the next time we can be together. About how I want to protect her and keep her safe and make her happy.
“I think so,” I finally respond. “Because of her, I enjoy waking up every day—it’s been like that since were children. I feel so alive when I’m with her, and even the thought of seeing her again fills me with happiness. Is that love?”
Mullah Sarwar smiles sadly. “I think you’ve just answered your own question,” he says. “I’m not saying that what you’re feeling is wrong. In fact, if it feels as pure as it sounds, it is probably right. God has blessed you with something beautiful and rare. But that doesn’t mean it won’t be very difficult, for so many reasons. You’re worried for this girl, as you should be, but you should also be worried for yourself.”
I know he’s right—it will be difficult, and we should be worried—but the fact that he doesn’t say that being with Fatima is impossible gives me hope.
“There are many in our culture who will see this as an offense to our faith. And they will want to take it out on you and this young lady. You have to be very careful, my son.” Mullah Sarwar is quiet before releasing a poignant sigh. “Zoya, the gift God has given you is precious.”
“Is it truly?” I ask, already knowing the answer deep inside.
“It is,” he answers. “But it’s not always easy. You have the choice to accept this gift from God or ignore it. I know how blessed I am to have loved my Aziza. She and I created a home and a family together. We raised them together, and now have beautiful grandchildren and great-grandchildren. All that started with the seed of love God gave us. Our only responsibility was to nourish it and treasure it.”
I hang on every word, still unaware of what I should take from this. Is he encouraging me to pursue my feelings for Fatima? And if so, how?
“So do I do the same?” I ask, feeling as lost as I have from the start.
“That’s difficult to answer,” Mullah Sarwar says, looking away. “We don’t live in a society where we can love freely. Even Aziza and I were an arranged marriage, but we turned the unfamiliarity to friendship and then eventually love. Our society does not allow us to cherish God’s gift publicly. We have to be careful with our heart, who we express it to and how open we can be with it. You have many obstacles to overcome. Do you want to be with her?”
“Of course I do,” I answer.
“What I mean is do you want to marry her and be with her for the rest of your life?” Mullah Sarwar asks. “You’re still a boy entering adulthood. Are you ready for such a commitment?”
I think for a moment about Fatima. I see her sweet smile as it creases her cheek and lifts the beauty mark above her lip. My stomach quickly jolts with a feeling of happiness and just as quickly drops.
“My life would be empty without her,” I respond. “At this age and at any age.”
Mullah Sarwar stares at me. He almost looks like he has a smile on his face, and then he nods.
That’s when I finally know what I have to do. I just have to hope I can do it before Rashid shames me and Fatima in front of our families and the village.
Ten
SAMIULLAH
On my way back home, I decide to take a quick detour. I make my way to the Suleiman ziyarat by riding my bike through dirt and pebbles, passing two mountains, one luminous red and the other a lush green, just as Mullah Sarwar said they would be. It’s just past the gently flowing stream, which sparkles from the sun’s rays as if there are thousands of small diamonds scattered at the bottom. The ziyarat is a small but intricate structure constructed with blue tiles and colored glass, just outside Mullah Sarwar’s village. I can tell the glasswork has been used in place of the jewels that once adorned its walls. Verses of the Quran-e-sharif have been delicately painted throughout the entire structure. It looks as though the holy book in its entirety is written in the exquisitely complex gold-and-blue designs.
For centuries, this shrine has been known for its spiritual powers when it comes to relationships and love. I first heard about it when I was at the madrassa. At the school, some saw it as a sin that people would pray at such a “blasphemous” place. They would say that the Sufis, the Muslim mystics who used to roam our lands centuries ago, glorified saints in Islam and created these shrines. It never bothered me, though; ziyarats have always been a part of our culture—even before Islam—a part that the zealots haven’t been able to wipe away. And one that now, I hope, will give me strength.
I make my way inside the ornate shrine and find two tombs. They are said to be of the old Afghan poet Suleiman and his wife, Banafsha. A woman completely covered in a blue chadari sits near the tomb, squatting as she rocks back and forth. She’s mumbling some prayers. Behind her is a man with a long dark beard, wearing a gray turban and flicking around his prayer beads. He doesn’t seem to be interested in the tomb of the ancient lovers—he’s busy looking around the complicated structure. When he sees me, he nods his head in greeting. I nod back and then he returns to his wall gazing.
As I pray, I recall the story my classmate told me about Suleiman and his wife:
Suleiman was just a baby when his parents left him inside a basket, snugly wrapped in blankets, outside a carpenter’s shop hundreds of years ago. The next morning, the elderly carpenter, Wahid, saw the basket and read the note that explained the parents were poor and could not take care of their baby, Suleiman, but that he was conceived with love and affection and that they hoped he could live a better life with a wealthier family. Back then, to be a village carpenter meant you had wealth, which is probably why the couple dropped the baby outside the old carpenter’s shop. But the old man did much of his work for free, to help those who couldn’t afford his structures. He didn’t make a profit off of his merchandise and was not a wealthy man. Still, because of the Muslim teachings to help those less fortunate, Wahid the carpenter decided to keep the child and raise him to
be honorable.
That little baby eventually turned into a handsome young man who helped the carpenter with his business and was well known among the villagers. Despite his past as an abandoned orphan, many families wanted Suleiman to marry their daughters. They knew him, trusted him and saw him as Wahid’s son. But Suleiman was committed to taking care of the old carpenter, no matter how many times Wahid encouraged him to start a family of his own.
One day at the shop, Suleiman overheard Wahid speaking with a customer. They were talking about building his daughter a wooden chest to hold her “jayz”—the curtains, towels, tablecloths and other things she would sew to take to her husband’s home. The customer told the carpenter that his daughter’s dream was to get married, but she had been disfigured in a house fire when she was a young girl, and the family did not believe anyone would marry her. Still, since she held on so tightly to the dream of finding her true love, they couldn’t break her heart and wanted to buy her a beautiful chest for her jayz.
It was left to Suleiman to build this wooden chest that would hold the dreams of the young girl. It took him a week of hammering, chiseling and nailing to complete a beautiful trunk that he painted red and pink. During that time, all he could think about was that disfigured girl he had never met and her dream of love. When he presented the chest to the old carpenter, he told him that he wanted to marry the girl, sight unseen. He knew he could take care of her and would do his best to make her happy. The carpenter made no objections and spoke to the girl’s father. The family was happy with the match, and the girl, Banafsha, came to live with Suleiman and the carpenter.
Banafsha took care of the carpenter when he was old and frail and quickly became Suleiman’s best friend and companion. They shared stories of their pasts, their hopes for the future and the fears and joys that they held deep inside. In time, their friendship turned to love, and that love grew into something neither had expected. Time went on, and they had children, the old carpenter died, and Suleiman continued working with wood. But in his spare time, Suleiman began to write poetry, beautiful poetry. In his lifetime, he wrote thousands of poems, most about Banafsha and the beauty of love, some about the old carpenter and a different kind of love and admiration.
Suleiman and Banafsha lived and loved together until they became old and gray. Their story became that of legend, at least in this part of Afghanistan. This shrine was created first by their children as a final resting place for their parents. And then the villagers decorated it with the Holy Scripture. In time, it became a place for lovers or those hurt by love to come pray for love and affection.
I think of my classmate who told me this story. And I think of all of the people who have visited the shrine before me, praying for love.
I sit by the tomb covered with a beautiful azure silk cloth with embroidery of the Holy Scripture on it. Dear God, I need your help and guidance as I try to tell Fatima how I feel about her. And I will need your help as I try to convince Fatima’s family and mine that, no matter our differences, we belong together. I sit and recite passages from the Quran before I finally ask God for my one true desire. I ask him to help make Fatima my wife.
Eleven
RASHID
From a distance I can see them, pushing their old karachee through town. It’s surprising the old wooden cart hasn’t crumbled yet. Mohammed and Karim look older since the last time I saw them. Their bodies are thinner and their skin rougher. They are greeting the shop owners as they pass, and I decide to go into the shop so I don’t have to talk to them.
“Your farmers are here,” I tell my uncle. It’s too bad that my foolish cousin isn’t here as well. I have come up with a plan, but I need Mohammad, Sami and my uncle all in the same place to make it happen. Even though I told Sami that God will punish him, I have figured out a way to help God along.
Sami has always been the favorite, the angelic son. It’s time my family finds out he isn’t as pure as they think he is. I know it, and God knows it. Soon they will know it too.
“Oh, wonderful,” Ismail Aaka responds and heads out of the shop. “Asalaam aleykum, my brothers!” I can hear him greet the scum.
“Walaykum asalaam!” they chirp back.
I hear mumbling until my uncle shouts out to me, “Zoya, Rashid, chai rawra!” I roll my eyes. He is ordering me to serve the peasants. I am tempted to tell him about my time with the local Taliban, but I am waiting for just the right moment, so I bring out the thermos with green tea and place it on the small metal table we sit around. They nod their heads at me, and I look away; they don’t deserve my attention.
“Zoya, where is the candy?” Ismail Aaka asks.
“Really, there’s no need for candy,” Mohammad, the father of the whore, says. “We just came to drop off the wheat.”
“Don’t be silly . . . Rashid, bring us some candy,” my uncle orders again. I nod. If I speak, I will scream at him for making me serve these people. I head into the shop, grab the candy and drop it on their table.
“Be careful!” Ismail Aaka barks. “Is something wrong?”
“No, uncle, I’m sorry. It slipped out of my hands,” I respond.
“Okay, thank you for the tea.” Ismail Aaka turns his attention back to the men and shakes his head. I walk back into the shop and wait out their visit. I can hear them talking about their sons and the land. It’s all quite boring. I lean back on my plastic chair and decide to take a nap when I think I hear . . . is that . . . it is! Is this my lucky day? Sami, Mohammad and my uncle all here at the same time?
“I went to go visit Mullah Sarwar a couple of villages over. He’s getting frail, and I wanted to check up on him,” I hear Samiullah tell the men.
“How was the mullah saib?” Ismail Aaka asks. “I hope you passed on our salaams.”
“I did, Father. He was very grateful and also sends his good wishes,” Samiullah says.
I step outside, trying to keep the grin off my face. Now is the time. “Did you speak of anything else?” I ask, walking into the open air. “You’ve been gone all day. Surely you had lots to talk about.”
Samiullah looks up. I see the fear in his eyes at the sight of me before he turns and looks at Mohammad. The look on Sami’s face is priceless. And now it’s time to expose him for the slime that he is.
“Well, my dear cousin, what else did you talk about?” I ask.
“Samiullah, are you okay?” Ismail Aaka asks his pathetic son.
“Yes, is something bothering you?” I ask.
“No, no. I’m fine. I’m sorry, I’m just very tired,” Samiullah says.
There is silence again. And the peasants now look uncomfortable too. They glance at each other, as if practicing mind reading. Fatima’s father speaks up. “I think we should start heading back. It’s getting late; we’ve stayed far longer than we should have.”
“That’s true, you have stayed too long, but I think you should stay a little longer,” I say. “I think you would be very interested in what has been going on in Samiullah’s mind lately.”
“Rashid!” my uncle yells.
“What do you mean?” Mohammad asks. I can see that question in the eyes of the rest of the men as well. Except for Sami. He knows exactly what I am talking about.
“I think it is better if it comes from Sami,” I say. His eyes are pleading with me to stop. “It would be quite improper for me to say anything. Right, dear cousin?”
“Why are you doing this?” Sami asks.
“What is going on?” Ismail Aaka demands.
“Will you tell him, or should I?” I ask Sami.
“I really think we should leave,” Mohammad the peasant says.
“No!” I respond. “This involves your daughter.”
There is sudden silence. Mohammad looks as if he has just been slapped. I almost feel sorry for him, at least for a moment. No one wants to be put to shame by a dirty daughter. Karim lo
oks away. He must be embarrassed that we are speaking of the other peasant’s female family member. Ismail Aaka looks shocked; his mouth is open, and he is staring at his son.
But Sami’s face is the best. He seems on the verge of tears. I think I might be smiling, so I try to control my facial muscles. I have to pretend I’m not enjoying this.
“What is going on?” Ismail Aaka finally says. He looks back and forth between Sami and me. His voice is quiet, but I can hear the anger. He then comes to me. “What are you saying? How dare you speak of your uncle’s female family members!”
“He’s not my uncle! And they are not our family!” I find myself yelling. But I cannot believe Ismail Aaka is directing his anger at me and not his filthy son.
“You are forbidden from disrespecting Mohammad and his family!” Ismail Aaka says. “Do you hear me?”
“I’m not the one disrespecting them,” I say. “It’s your son who is disrespecting him, his daughter and our entire family!”
That’s when I feel it. The sting sends a rush of blood to my face. I can’t believe Ismail Aaka just slapped me.
“Shut your mouth right now! Or I will show you how I punish my own family!” Ismail Aaka says. I can see the fury in his eyes. It scares me for a second before I realize that I am the one who should be furious. I didn’t do anything wrong!
“I’m not the one who you should want to punish. Your son is the one who needs discipline!” I say.
I give Sami a snicker and start clucking my tongue before leaving them to drown in the mess I have exposed. I walk straight toward the orange skyline. This is not the last they will see of me.