WANTING MOR
WANTING MOR
Rukhsana Khan
Copyright © 2009 by Rukhsana Khan
Published in Canada and the USA in 2009 by Groundwood Books
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We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and the Ontario Arts Council.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Khan, Rukhsana
Wanting Mor / Rukhsana Khan.
ISBN 978-0-88899-858-3 (bound).–ISBN 978-0-88899-862-0 (pbk.)
1. Afghan War, 2001- –Juvenile fiction. 2. Girls–Afghanistan–Juvenile
fiction. 3. Orphanages–Afghanistan–Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
PS8571.H42W35 2009 jC813’.54 C2008-905687-6
Design by Michael Solomon
Printed and bound in Canada
To Huwa, Najibah and Karima Yousufi,
to my daughters, Ruqayyah, Hafsa and
Nusaybah Alli, and to all the women who
strive to emulate the wives of the Prophet
(peace be upon him).
1
I THOUGHT she was sleeping. It was a relief to wake up to silence after all that coughing during the past few days.
I peeked in on her before I started the fire. I swept the floor and grabbed some ash from the fireplace. I washed the dishes without her telling me to, thinking, Won’t she be pleased? Won’t she rub her hand on my hair and smile at me with that look on her face that I love? The one that says she wouldn’t exchange me for all the money in the world.
I scrubbed those pots until my knuckles hurt. I wanted them to gleam so that she could see her face in them.
When Baba comes home she still hasn’t woken up. I take out the leftovers from last night’s supper and warm them on the fire. He eats quickly and licks the bowl so clean with his finger that I hardly need to wash it.
A few grumbles and he’s gone again.
I clean up, pray Zuhr and still she hasn’t woken up. With the last of the buffalo milk I make her a cup of tea just the way she likes it and push open the door.
“Mor?”
I know immediately that something is wrong.
The room is too quiet. The skin on her face is too slack.
A wail escapes from me before I can stifle it. My legs are going to collapse. I sit down heavily on the edge of the charpaee. The jute ropes creak with my weight and it jostles her body.
Gently, gently. Do not disturb her. The cup feels too hot in my hands. I stare down stupidly at the milky brown liquid. There’s froth at the edge of the cup, and some of the bubbles are bursting.
Am I dreaming?
My toes brush the mud floor of our hut. The trampled dirt is soft against my rough feet. I slowly look back at my mother.
She’s dead.
Should I try to revive her? I put down the cup and grab her hand. Stiff and cold! I drop it like it burned me. “Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi rajioon.” Rocking back and forth, over and over I repeat the words, “Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi rajioon.” Indeed from God we have come and to Him is our return.
How will I tell Baba?
When I get up, my foot hits the cup. There goes the tea.
I make myself go next door to tell Khalaa Gaur. (She’s not really my aunt but I call her Khalaa for respect.) She runs over bouncing her baby on her hip. She takes a look at Mor lying there, covers her mouth with a corner of her porani and starts wailing. I wish she’d stop. Mor always said wailing was haram.
Khalaa Gaur says, “Yes. She’s dead.” As if I was lying.
Then she sees her bratty son peeking at the door. She tells him to go get my father.
“I don’t know where Agha went.”
“Silly boy! Go find him. He’s past the village, working on the new road!”
“But I don’t know where that is! It’s too far.”
Khalaa Gaur takes a menacing step toward him and he runs off, but I doubt he’ll tell Baba.
She looks around the darkened room. “Don’t you have any rags or something? We must tie her up.”
I find the cloth I use to wipe the dishes. It’s clean. She hands me the baby and then tears three long strips. She passes the first strip under Mor’s chin and ties it at the top of her head. It will keep Mor’s jaw closed. With the second she ties Mor’s feet together and with the third she ties her arms to her sides.
She wipes her hands on her dress. “There. At least she won’t spread apart now.”
I thought Khalaa would stay with me but she’s got work to do.
“Don’t worry, Jameela,” she says. “We’ll get some women together to bathe her for the burial.”
When Baba arrives I can tell he doesn’t know. For a moment I can’t say anything. My throat is blocked. I just stare at him.
He’s starting to look annoyed. I didn’t even answer his greeting. He says it again.
I reply, “Wa alaikum assalam.” It means on you be peace, too, but I can’t imagine ever having peace again.
Finally he says, “Where’s your mother?”
I shake my head and look down at my lap. More tears come, dripping in a blur onto my useless hands.
He runs into the room. Then there’s the strangest choking kind of noise I’ve ever heard. I rush to his side, practically holding him up so he doesn’t fall.
Khalaa Gaur, true to her word, gets some women together and they bring buckets of water. They tell me to leave but I say I want to help. Khalaa Gaur frowns.
“This is a serious matter. You’re very young. We can’t have you getting all upset while we bathe her.”
“I’ll be good.”
I’ve never seen a dead body being washed. I’m very good at staying out of the way, and yet being ready to help at the same time.
First we take a sheet and cover her. Then, working under the sheet, we remove my mother’s clothes. I bundle them up and leave them in a corner. I’ll wash them later. Maybe they’ll fit me one day.
My mother looks younger with just the sheet lying over her. Muttering prayers, we gently clean her, make wudu for her, then wash her hair, the right side of her body, then the left.
She’s gotten quite stiff. Her hands feel like they’ve been carved out of wood, a very soft wood, and her toes are splayed. I keep expecting her to open her eyes.
She looks peaceful and beautiful to me. She always said, “Jameela, if you can’t be beautiful you should at least be good. People will appreciate that.”
We don’t have any camphor. I wish we did. It would leave such a nice scent.
When her body’s clean, we’re ready to wrap her. Despite the sheet that’s covering her, I still catch glimpses of her body. It makes me feel so awkward. She was always so shy and modest. I can’t remember ever seeing even her thigh. I try my best not to look.
Before the white cloth is wrapped over her face, I kiss her forehead. The women hesitate for just a moment, and then cover up the last of her.
Now we all need a bath.
Baba’s outside with the men, sitting on the ston
y ground, looking as tired as I feel. While we were doing the ghusl they were digging her grave. May Allah make it spacious for her, Ameen.
Some of the women are wailing. They sound like the sirens of those foreign vehicles. It should bother me but it doesn’t. It’s funny how quickly you can get used to the sound.
Khalaa Gaur says, “I wish I could stay with you tonight, but my little one is miserable. You’ll be okay.”
I nod.
The last time someone died, our house was full of people, all coming with whatever food they could spare.
But then so many people were killed.
It doesn’t look like that’s going to happen this time. There have been too many funerals. People are weary. And with all the mines left behind in the fields, and the years of drought, there’s little food.
The aunties leave for home. That’s the signal for the men to come in and take my mother away, charpaee and all.
Let them be gentle. Don’t let them bump the frame on the doorway. Don’t let them jostle her as they make their way down the slope.
I watch until they turn a corner and I can’t see them any more.
The ground is rocky. Pebbles poke at the soles of my bare feet.
The sun is beginning to set. The Afghan sky is flying banners of red and orange and yellow. Mor would have loved it. She adored color.
I get some more water. I’ll have to clean up, too. Wash that sheet, wash her last clothes, her bedding. Just the thought of it makes me feel drained.
I bathe myself in much the same way we bathed my mother, and I put on my spare clothes as quickly as I can. I must hurry. Maghrib time passes so quickly.
I pray extra nafil for her and spend a long time in sujud, pressing my forehead to the rough fabric of my prayer mat, begging Allah to have mercy on her soul.
They must have finished her Janaza by now. They’ll bury her before it gets too dark. I should make Baba some tea and see what there is to eat. The place is such a mess, and I’m so weary.
I’m just adding the tea leaves when he bursts through the door.
The sound scares me, and I drop some of the tea leaves in the fire. They go up in a puff of fragrant smoke.
Will he notice? Will he yell at me for wasting tea? I’m shaking so hard that the leaves bounce around in the little tin in my hand.
Put it down. Before you spill more. So I do.
He comes and stands right behind me, and I’m not sure why.
I hold my breath.
Then he drops his hand on my shoulder, and I flinch, but he isn’t squeezing. He’s not pressing hard. He’s patting me. He’s not angry. In fact he’s telling me to step aside, that I must be tired, and he’ll make the tea.
I move to the other side of the fire and he squats down in my place, adding more tea leaves, even though there’s more than enough in the pot. He doesn’t know how strong to make it.
There’s no milk for the tea and only a little sugar, and there’s half a piece of naan. It’s a bit hard and stale but if he soaks it in the tea it will be fine.
When he looks up at me the shine of his eyes catches the glitter of the fire.
“Is this all the food in the house?” He points at the naan. Is he angry? Does he know? Of course I should have saved all of it for him because he needs his strength, but I broke off a small chunk and ate it myself. Should I confess?
I huddle into my porani and nod. He could take it as a yes or maybe even an I don’t know.
After a long pause, I lift my head to see what he’s doing.
He’s pouring the tea, and spilling a lot of it in the process. He hasn’t the knack for it.
He hands me a cup and the whole piece of hard naan, but when I hesitate to take it he says, “Go on. You can have it, Jameela.”
So I do. And such a surprise, my tea is sweet, too! He put the sugar in the pot for both of us.
He sips thoughtfully, staring at the fire. I wonder what he’s thinking. Is he thinking of the last time we were a house in mourning?
When he sits up suddenly and takes a deep breath, I can’t help flinching.
He’s feeling at the pocket of his kurtha and he glances at me.
“You should get to bed. It’s late now.”
The night is cold. I hate to touch the water to make wudu but I must. I might as well get it over with. I wonder if Baba will pray with me. He prayed Janaza. He had to. There were all those people there, what would they think? But will he pray Isha tonight when there’s no one but me to see him?
It doesn’t look like it. He’s gone back to staring at the fire.
It’s hard to concentrate on my prayer with him in the room. It’s so strange to see him here. At this time of night he’s always out with his friends.
I finish quickly and then grab one of the quilts Mor made and wrap myself up. I’ll wash the dishes in the morning. I lie with my back to the mud wall. That way it feels like I’m not so alone.
Baba drinks the last of his tea and gets up and stretches. His spine lets out a crack. He grabs another quilt, one Mormade from worn-out clothes, throws dirt on the fire and curls up in a corner.
He doesn’t go into their room. I don’t blame him.
Mor would have been sweeping the floor right now. Her silhouette would be passing by the fire, bobbing up and down in that funny squat-walk, holding the long broom bristles in her fist. I’d hear the calming swish-swish sound of the bristles brushing the floor. And she’d be laughing and telling me a story while she worked.
She was so full of stories. She told me once about how her father, my grandfather, used to mold clay pots on his wheel back when there was peace in Afghanistan. He said what made a pot strong was the firing. If the pot came out too soon, it would crack and be useless.
Mor said we’re made of clay, too. Allah molded Adam from it, and we’re the children of Adam. When things get bad, that’s our firing. We have to be patient, trust in Allah that we will come out of it without cracking.
She’s resting now, beyond sickness and pain and hunger. May Allah have mercy on her. Ameen.
I’m so tired but I can’t sleep. This time yesterday she was alive. What if I had gone to her straight away this morning? What if I had stayed by her bed? What if I’d run to get the doctor in the next village? No. What if can drive you crazy. What if opens the door to shaitan.
Insha Allah, it will be better in the morning. If only I can sleep. If only I can get through tonight.
2
SOMETHING wakes me up, some noise in the blackness, like someone being sneaky. I huddle deeper into my quilt and I wait for the sound to come again.
A soft step. Then a bump and my father’s voice muttering a curse. And then the unmistakable crinkle of aluminum foil and the click of a cigarette lighter. But he’s not smoking a cigarette.
Mor made him promise. How many times did he promise? I can see his face now, lit up by the tiny flame. His eyes bulging. He doesn’t see me watching. He doesn’t care about anything but that little brown lump of opium smoldering on the foil.
There’s a small tube pressed against his lips. Is it a piece from one of those foreigners’ pens? He’s using it to suck up the smoke.
Oh, the stink.
He holds his breath, keeping the smoke in like he doesn’t want to let it go, but finally he must. Already the lines around his face have relaxed. His eyes are glazed. He’s escaped into his own little world.
Nothing will make him angry now.
I can’t watch him. It makes me sick. So I turn to face the wall and pull the quilt right up to my nose and tuck it tight around my head to keep out that smell.
Allah protect me. Allah have mercy on me. Watch over me and help my father.
The next thing I know I hear a banging at the door. What time is it? It must be late. There are cracks of daylight shining through the chinks in the door and shutters. More banging.
The hut is cold. I shiver as I push back the quilt and grab my porani. It’s Khalaa Gaur with her baby perched on her
hip.
It’s warmer outside than it is in the hut, so I step out there to join her. The sun shining on my back feels good.
Khalaa Gaur peeks into the dark doorway and sniffs the air.
“What’s that smell?”
Does it still smell? The stink should be gone by now.
She says, “I brought you something. It’s not much.”
Just seeing the naan in her hands makes me feel light-headed and weak with gratitude.
She glances past me at the darkness of the hut.
“Do you need help? I was going to start the fire for you and help clean up.”
I invite her in, but then I hear a stirring from the pile in the corner. She stares at it.
“Your father’s still here?! He’s not digging gravel by the road?” She’s frowning, thinking hard.
“I’ll come back later,” she says. “When he’s gone.”
She presses the naan into my hands, but instead of turning right to go back to her own hut, she goes left toward the huts of the other aunties. They’ll be busy for quite some time, wagging their tongues about Baba.
Baba came here from Kabul when he married Mor. They’ve always hated him. They never trust outsiders, no matter how long you live among them.
There’s water in the bucket. I pour some into the pot for tea. Baba groans when I strike the flint with the steel, and for a moment I freeze.
Don’t wake up yet, Baba. The tea’s not made.
He rolls over and settles back down. Good. A bit more time. But the spark has gone out. I have to strike the flint again, but this time Baba doesn’t move.
Blowing on the tinder to get the fire to catch makes me feel dizzy. It’s a mercy when the flames start licking the dry grass. Feed it small sticks, then bigger ones. Be patient or the fire will go out. And then sticks the size of my fingers, and now I can put on the pot for the tea. It will taste so good with the naan.
While that’s boiling I’ll gather the laundry. I hesitate in front of the door to the bedroom. I take a deep breath and push the door open.
It’s dark. Nobody opened the shutters, but chinks of light are enough to let me see the pile of bedsheets and clothes that I dropped in the corner yesterday.
Wanting Mor (Large Print 16pt) Page 1