Wanting Mor (Large Print 16pt)

by Rukhsana Khan

  I grab them and back out of the room, shutting the door too quickly behind me. The sound of the door slamming wakes Baba, and instantly I freeze.

  He rolls over, stretching his arms wide, a slight smile on his face like he hasn’t got a care in the world. He sees me and stops, squinting up at me.

  Is he wondering who I am? After a moment he smiles, but his voice is thick and blurry.

  “Aah, Jameela. Where’s your mother?”

  Has he forgotten already?

  The look on my face, the quiet of the hut, maybe that sobers him because suddenly he sits up and looks around. His shoulders slump and the smile is gone.

  I pour him some tea. And I give him the naan. Will he take it all or will he give me some? Why didn’t I break some off and hide it when I had the chance?

  He doesn’t ask where the naan came from. Maybe I should tell him.

  I try to speak but my voice is hoarse. He looks up, waiting. I have to say something now. I clear my throat and try again.

  “Khalaa Gaur…Khalaa Gaur, she came by earlier and gave us that naan.”

  “Oh.” Then he looks down at the naan in his hands. “Did you have some?”

  I huddle into my porani and shake my head.

  “Why didn’t you say something?!” He sounds almost angry, and instantly I’m tense and ready to duck. But he isn’t lashing out. He breaks off a big chunk for me, bigger than what’s left for himself, and hands it over.

  I protest, saying I’ll take the smaller piece.

  “No. You have it,” he says.

  I protest again, but something in his face warns me, and finally I take the larger piece. He’s tearing the naan, stuffing it into his mouth. His fingernails are so dirty. I try not to stare.

  When he has finished, he combs his fingers through his hair and smooths out the wrinkles in his kurtha a bit. It doesn’t help. He looks like he rolled off a cliff. And finally he leaves. For work, I hope.

  With him gone a great weight has been lifted. It’s good to have food in my stomach. I feel strong enough to tackle the washing.

  I carry the clothes in a steel tub down to the river. Other girls are there already, slapping their laundry against the rocks to get the dirt out of them. They see me and stop talking, stop everything. And for a moment they just stare at me and I stare at them.

  Then Nooriya, one of the kinder ones, jumps up and takes the tub from my hands.

  “Jameela, you poor thing. Just rest over there. We’ll wash these.”

  For a moment it feels nice. I feel like a queen resting beneath this tree while they work. But I can’t hear what they’re saying over the sound of the river and the slapping of the laundry.

  And I feel itchy watching them do my work. In the end I join them and take back the task.

  3

  WHEN Mor was alive I would often avoid Baba. He had an unpredictable temper, and I didn’t like the way he looked at my lip, like somehow it was my fault I was born this way. But with her gone he’s been quite kind. On too many nights I still hear the crinkle of aluminum foil and the click of the lighter followed by the stink of burning opium, but then the next day he seems to be easier to live with.

  Last night he smoked a lot, so I thought today he would be in an especially good mood.

  But he wakes up scowling, rubbing the dirt from the corners of his bleary eyes with his filthy fingernails. His voice is fuzzy.

  “It’s this place. It’s unlucky, that’s what it is. We should leave here. Go to Kabul where I can get a proper job. There’s all kinds of construction. That’s where the real money is.”

  “Here, Baba. Have some tea. It will make you feel better.”

  “In Kabul we would have milk. There’s all kinds of opportunity there. I’m sick of this!” And he waves his arm around his head to include the house, the village. And me?

  “You’re still tired, Baba. You’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat.”

  “Don’t tell me what I am! I’ll tell you!” He gets to his feet. The door slams behind him.

  My face is hot. How could I have been so careless? So disrespectful. Maybe I’m tired, too.

  Baba and his talk of luck. There’s no such thing! Everything happens for a reason. We just can’t always see it.

  He hasn’t been gone an hour when he comes running back. I’m spreading the laundry on tree branches to dry.

  “Leave that and get packed. We’re going.”

  Mor’s quilt is wet and heavy. I struggle to heave it over a thicker branch.

  He says, “What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you hear me? We’re going. We’re leaving this God-forsaken place!”

  Asthaghfirullah! What a thing to say!

  I’ve pulled my porani close to my mouth and realize I’m chewing on the end like I do when I’m nervous.

  He’s talking on, something about how nice it will be in Kabul, how he misses it, how the foreigners don’t bomb that city. But I can barely hear him.

  I push half of Mor’s quilt over the branch. Almost there. Baba grabs it from my hands and drops it back in the tub.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I said leave it! It’s not even ours any more. I sold it. We can’t carry all that stuff. Go inside and get packed. Listen to me or I’ll...”

  I’m chewing the corner of my porani again. He grabs my arm in a grip too tight and drags me into the house.

  “Get your things now. I want to get there before nightfall.”

  But that’s impossible. I’ve heard it’s a three-day journey, even by donkey.

  My spare clothes are still wet. And there are the pots and pans. I start to put them together in some kind of pile.

  “Leave those, too. I sold them. Anything else?”

  I hold out the matches and tinder. He grabs the tinder, just little tufts of dried grass, and tosses it to the ground.

  “We won’t need that. We might have real heat in the city.”

  It comes down to a small bundle of my wet clothes and my comb. He sold everything else. Even Mor’s clothes. I won’t be able to grow into them after all.

  “Can I visit her grave? Say goodbye to her?”

  Baba looks at me for a moment.

  I’m waiting for him to decide.

  Finally he says, “Just go. Be right back, though. Don’t make me come to get you.”

  I run.

  Down the stony hill and across the road, dust coats my feet and I slip once or twice, but it feels so good to be out. I pull my porani in so it still covers me. The leaves on the few remaining trees hang straight down and barely move.

  The place is empty, the graves small humps of loose gravel and dirt. None of them have markers. There are two newer mounds but it isn’t hard to figure out which is Mor’s. The other one is the length of a child.

  It’s so quiet. No hint of a breeze.

  Now that I’m here I don’t know what to say. I wonder if she can hear me. Sense my footsteps above her.

  Tearing off a corner of my porani, I wrap a large stone in the blue cloth and tie it tight, double knots that I pull with my teeth so they won’t ever come loose. They would have laid her on her right side so she was facing Mecca. Her head would be on this side, so that’s where I gently place my marker.

  I wonder if she knows he’s taking me away. I recite Surah Fatiha. It makes me feel better. Allah is with me even if she’s gone.

  It’s like I can hear her. Jameela, remember the man who asked the Prophet (peace be upon him) for advice. What did the Prophet (peace be upon him) tell him?

  “Don’t become angry,” I whisper. “Don’t become angry. Don’t become angry.” He said it three times.

  I’d better go before Baba comes looking for me.

  “Assalaamu alaikum, Mor.” Peace be upon you.

  I turn toward home, but each step is a struggle. Something inside me is ripping.

  I meet my father halfway. He was already coming to fetch me. When he sees me he just nods and turns around. I follow him closely even though it’s hard
to keep up.

  He looks around at the mud house that was our home, checking the corners for anything forgotten. And then a horn sounds outside.

  “He’s here.”

  I pull my porani tight to my face. Who is this now? My head’s in a whirl.

  A battered truck is parked on the rocky area in front.

  “Get in the back,” Baba says. It’s flat and open to the sky. Baba climbs into the cab, grabbing the agha’s hand in a firm grip and smiling broadly.

  Why is he so happy? Is this all just a big adventure for him?

  I wish someone would come out and wave goodbye. Nooriya, Khalaa Gaur, one of the other neighbor aunties, even Khalaa Gaur’s bratty son. No one’s there to watch us pull away in a rattle of pebbles, me lurching left to right, gripping the side of the truck to keep from falling out.

  The road barely exists. What isn’t churned up by the tracks of military machines is pock-marked with bomb craters. These days the machines belong to the Americans, but before that they belonged to the Russians and in between those two invaders, we had the Taliban.

  We’ve had nothing but misery for so long. All these foreigners fighting over us like dogs with a bone.

  This agha cannot drive fast but as it is the wind plays like a devil with my porani. It’s all I can do to keep covered. The sun beats down and I’m feeling hot and sticky in no time.

  The mountains in the distance are a misty bluish color. During the Taliban years there was drought. The land has yet to recover. Even I can remember when the hills of Afghanistan were carpeted in green and everywhere there were flowers. Now it’s just dull brown.

  We pass through other villages. Villagers huddle together, sleeping on charpaees, tending to skinny goats. They glance at us respectfully as we drive by. What there is of traffic is all heading toward Kabul, mostly old men on donkeys loaded twice their height with straw and sticks.

  Part of me is excited. How could I not be? It’s my first ride in a vehicle. It’s such a strange floating kind of sensation, this riding above the ground.

  And I can’t help feeling important. I’ve always made way for cars and trucks and now other people make way for us. Agha likes the horn. People rush out of our path as we pass, as if we’re some kind of dignitaries.

  But it’s just a truck. Didn’t I despise others when they acted like this? Mor always said Allah gives to whom He pleases. She said that having things doesn’t make people better.

  Am I forgetting her already? My eyes water and I wipe them dry.

  No. I’ll never forget her. No matter how far away he takes me.

  We pass more villages that all look the same and we pass empty fields that can’t be sown because of mines left over from the wars. We drive for so long that even my teeth feel rattled.

  We stop once to refuel and eat. They pass me a piece of naan and the bottle of water. I try to wipe the top without them seeing. The agha pulls out a red can that was sitting in the back with me and pours the contents into the tank. Then we’re on our way again.

  As we get nearer to Kabul, the houses get closer and closer together, leaning up against each other like they’re tired.

  The air is yellow, and it tastes thick. How can they breathe? The exhaust of hundreds of cars clogging the roads makes me cough.

  And everywhere there are people! I never dreamed there were so many!

  They don’t look friendly. They walk with their heads bent, scowls on their faces. And many of the women are bare-headed. There are ragged children everywhere.

  My legs are cramped. I’ve been sitting for too long. I feel like getting out and walking, too. The roads are so clogged with traffic, I’m sure I’d make better speed.

  We drive down a hundred lanes and alleys, barely squeezing through the houses in places. Finally we stop on a ragged broken pavement in front of a house that is definitely not made of mud.

  While Baba’s thanking the agha, I get my bundle together and my porani fixed up around me.

  Will we be staying here? The men talk and talk and I wait and wait. It wouldn’t be so bad if Mor were here. She’d nudge me under her porani, and I’d nudge her back, and from her eyes I would be able to tell she was smiling.

  The agha puts a hand on Baba’s shoulder and leads him in, calling to his wife to get some tea ready. He speaks Pushto with a thick Farsi accent.

  Did they forget about me? Am I supposed to wait out here?

  Finally Baba sticks his head out the doorway and waves at me to join them.

  The house is cool and dim and smells like burnt onions. My bare feet slap against the smooth cold floor. I’ve never been in such a grand home. They even have a beautiful wrought-iron gate that looks like it has a lock. That would keep them safe with so many bandits around.

  We go down a narrow corridor to a room on our left that has a television in the corner and some corbacha on the floor. The corbacha are stuffed fat and so soft I could fall asleep right here.

  A khalaa comes in, a porani barely covering her hair, nothing covering her face at all. The way my father gawks at her makes me burn with shame. When will he look away? Won’t the agha be cross? And yet he doesn’t seem to mind. Is he showing her off?

  He gestures toward me and says, “Look who I’ve brought to help out? You’ll just need to show her how you want things done.”

  Khalaa’s face changes. She looks at me like she’s wondering how strong I am. I sit a bit taller.

  “Very well. Come here then.”

  I hate to leave those corbacha. I get to my feet and follow her into another room, less grand, with grease splattered on the walls.

  There are some pots that need scrubbing. One of them contains the very charred remains of onions.

  “Start with these,” she says.

  “Where’s the ash?”

  She wrinkles her nose.

  “We don’t use ash in the city! Here.” And she hands me a plastic bucket filled with some kind of powder.

  She sees my confusion and she hands me this curled-up metal stuff.

  “This is soap. You pat the metal on it and scrub the pots. The water comes out of this tap here.”

  Water inside the house? No hauling buckets?

  “I’ll come back to check on you.”

  The sooner I start, the sooner I’ll be done. I’m not sure how much of the soap to use. It looks like it costs a lot, so I’ll just use a little so she won’t get cross.

  Soap is useless. I’d be done in a flash if I only had some proper fireplace ash.

  I’m still struggling with the mess when a strange feeling of being watched comes over me.

  A young girl is standing in the doorway. How long has she been there?

  I smile at her.

  “Assalaamu alaikum,” I say. She doesn’t smile back and she doesn’t answer. What’s wrong with her?

  I turn back to the pots, but I can still feel her eyes on me. It feels so strange to be stared at by such a young child. Why doesn’t she say anything?

  I look quickly at her to catch her staring. She looks away. Then when I turn back to the pots, she’s staring at me again. Does she know about my lip?

  Khalaa comes in past the girl, touching her head gently. It reminds me of something Mor would do.

  Khalaa inspects the pots and nods. “All right, take the small one there and make some tea.” Then she hands me a jug that’s brim full of milk. So much!

  My mouth waters at the sight of it.

  I’m eager to show her how well I can work. Tea is my specialty. I can make it easily.

  But where’s the fireplace? I don’t see it anywhere so I ask.

  “Silly. We don’t have a fireplace. We have gas.” And she squats down by these blackened claw-like things and turns a knob.

  I hear a hiss and there’s a strange smell. She grabs a flint and some steel from the top of a little shelf, hits them together to make a spark and immediately there are tongues of blue flame licking the bottom of the black claw-like thing.

  I see.
She turns a knob to control how high the flame goes.

  “All right, fill the pot with water and make the tea.” So I do as she commands, taking a gulp of the water while I’m at it. Ew! City water stinks!

  When she’s gone I drink some of the milk. It tastes so good, washing away the taste of the city water. There’s still plenty left for the tea.

  My porani’s in my way and the men are inside, so I tie it up around my head so it’s away from those sneaky blue flames. Mor once told me about a lady from the village who was careless and her porani caught fire. Her neck was forever scarred by it.

  When the tea is ready, I turn the gas down until the blue flames cough and sputter out.

  Where’s Khalaa? I don’t have permission to enter the rest of the house. Where’s that girl then, the one who was staring at me? She’s not here either.

  I untie my porani so that it’s covering me again and wait.

  When Khalaa comes in, she looks ready to yell.

  “What are you doing? It’s getting cold! Pour it in the cups!”

  I tell her I don’t know where the cups are. She hasn’t shown me. She makes a face like it’s still my fault, grabs the cups and a tray and pushes them at me.

  “Take them inside.”

  I adjust my porani again so it’s covering my face, but it’s hard. I hold the tray with one hand. I hope it doesn’t fall. She might slap me.

  Baba doesn’t notice me. He’s too busy laughing at the agha’s joke.

  I set the tray down and retreat to the kitchen. Khalaa hands me tea in a chipped cup. I sit down in a corner and drink it. The creamy buffalo milk almost hides the taste of the water.

  Khalaa is standing at the side, her arm around that creepy girl, watching me and nodding.

  I draw my porani around me so there’s not much they can see. I’m sure Baba’s going to get some money from my helping, and he’ll be working for this agha. Maybe in a few months we can find our own place and set up a house.

  The agha barges into the kitchen just then, glances at me and starts speaking in a strange language. I think it’s Farsi. I recognize a few of the words.