Khalaa doesn’t like it. In Pushto she says, “What are you talking about? I don’t want you wasting all our hard-earned money!”
He glances at me, then replies in Pushto. “It’s him paying.”
I can’t help stiffening. They’re watching me so I try to relax. I wish I could take Baba aside, talk some sense into him. He’s laughing and smiling, fingering the Afghani notes in the pocket of his kurtha — the money from all our things he sold — hurrying agha out of the house like he can’t wait to spend it.
What could I say to him? Baba does what he wants. He and Mor were forever fighting over it. He wouldn’t listen to her. Why would he listen to me?
Khalaa keeps me busy all evening. I change and wash the sheets of the beds upstairs, I sweep the stairs and wash the windows the best I can, one ear always listening for the rumble of the truck. I’ve prayed Isha and got ready for bed and I still haven’t heard it.
“Here,” says Khalaa, and she hands me a quilt. “You can sleep in this hallway. When the men arrive, let them in but first make sure it’s them.” And she shows me how to lock that fancy iron gate and bolt the door behind it.
I curl up on the floor. The house is full of strange creaking noises like someone is walking overhead. It was better when I was busy. I didn’t have time to think of Mor lying in her grave so far away. I don’t want to think of her body decaying but I can’t help it.
All the bodies I’ve ever seen in different stages of decay flash across my mind wearing Mor’s face. Even our she-goat. The one who wandered into the minefield to graze. She wasn’t ten feet from the path but we couldn’t retrieve her. It was too dangerous. I can still see the maggots crawling at the corner of her eye, her blackened tongue and her belly swollen and ready to burst.
It’s been a month since we buried Mor. Soon there will be nothing left of her that I can recognize.
I wish she hadn’t died so soon. I wish she was here beside me. But she’s gone. She said we’re all headed that way.
The best thing I can do is be just like her. It won’t be easy. She was so good. So patient, even when I made a mistake, never raising her hand to strike me, and when I was sick she never left my side except to get me some water to drink.
I wake to the sound of the truck pulling up. It’s so loud! I unbolt the door and peek through the grill to make sure it’s them.
But something is wrong. Agha opens the door and falls out of the cab. He’s lying in a heap. And he’s making noises, sobs, I think. Baba’s not much better. He comes around to help him up and ends up falling on top of him.
Oh, Allah, please. Not him, too.
I run back to the stairway.
“Khalaa! Khalaa! Come quick. Something’s wrong.”
Khalaa comes rushing down the stairs, tossing her porani over her head.
“What’s the matter? What happened?”
I’m struggling with the lock, but somehow the key won’t turn. Khalaa pushes me out of the way and opens it easily.
My father smells so strange.
“They’re ill! Shall I go for a doctor?”
Why is Khalaa so calm? Does she care that little for her husband? If only she’d tell me which way to run to get a doctor.
She flips the light switch, takes one look at them and sneers.
“They’re not ill. They’re drunk.” Without a word she grabs Agha’s arm and drags him inside.
Drunk?! But that’s forbidden. Now I see that Agha wasn’t sobbing. He was giggling.
My father has this stupid grin on his face, like he doesn’t have a worry in the world. I guess I should bring him in out of the alleyway, although part of me is tempted to leave him lying there. He’s so heavy and I’m so weary.
I guess I’m not as careful as I should be while dragging him. He lets out a moan when he bumps his head on the edge of the gate. I should feel bad about it, but I don’t.
I’ve always been taught to respect my elders, especially my parents. With Mor it was easy.
4
THE PROBLEM with hard shiny floors that are not made of mud is that dust from the streets, from all the dung of donkeys and horses and animals in the alleyways — the same dust that clogs the air — ends up settling on those nice shiny floors, and they need to be swept and mopped every single day.
It takes me all morning. I always save Farzana’s room for last. That’s the name of the girl. She still hasn’t spoken to me. Her tutor comes an hour before lunch time and I like to listen to her lessons.
The tutor is not an old woman. I’d say about Mor’s age, but so very different. She has glasses and she’s missing teeth. It’s not hard to peek at the little slate that she’s drawing on. Alif, ba, ta.
I could learn to read if I just had the chance. Mor always wished it for me but there was no school in the village, and she had grown up during the war when there was no such thing as school, so she couldn’t teach me herself.
The tutor says, “Miss, I cannot help you if you do not complete your homework.”
Farzana rolls her eyes. “My head hurts.”
A whiny note creeps into the khalaa’s voice.
“Miss, your mother pays good money for me to come to teach you. I have four children to feed. You’ll get me in trouble if you don’t learn anything.”
Farzana yawns so wide that I can see the black spots on her upper back teeth.
The khalaa purses her lips and taps the slate with her pointy stick.
“Miss, please. What letter is this?”
Jeem. Say jeem. I think it so loud I’m sure Farzana can hear me. But she just frowns at the board.
“Ha?”
The khalaa sighs. “No, miss. Ha doesn’t have the dot in the middle. Please concentrate.”
Farzana shrugs. “Kha?”
The tutor sighs even louder.
“No, miss. Kha has the dot on top. This letter has it in the middle, right here, see?”
It takes five minutes to get Farzana to admit it’s a jeem. And another five minutes to figure out that the letter makes the sound “ja.”
I’ve finished the floors. I should go down and start making lunch and yet I dawdle. I’ll just dust the furniture.
When her mother barges in, Farzana sits up, the tutor stands straight, and I wipe the furniture a bit faster.
Khalaa glances at me and frowns but doesn’t say anything. She gestures for the tutor to come outside. The lady crosses the floor quickly and they have a whispered conversation in the hallway.
Farzana picks up her doll and starts changing its clothes.
I can’t linger any longer so I go downstairs to make lunch.
I must admit the stove is a lot easier to use than our old fireplace. It didn’t take me long to get the hang of it.
The nice thing about being the cook is that you never go hungry. I always make sure there’s a little extra left for me.
The tutor eats in the kitchen with me. I’ve got my porani all wrapped up around me, making a kind of tent. She avoids looking my way. If I lived with her, I could learn so many different things.
I shouldn’t be thinking like this. She has four children already. What does she need with another mouth to feed? I should be grateful for what I have, not longing for things that are out of reach.
Khalaa comes in after I’ve washed the pots and picks up one of them to see if there’s any dirt left inside. She squints and looks close. She rubs at a mark, but I know I did a good job. I’m very careful, and I try to please her.
She picks up another and does the same.
I’m glad I have my face covered. She can’t see me smile. She gets angry when I smile.
In the end she can’t find anything wrong so she has to just nod and go away.
She’s been talking Farsi a lot more. She thinks that way I can’t understand, but it’s not that hard to pick up what they’re saying. Especially since she’s not very good at speaking it and she mixes in a lot of Pushto words. Plus she has this habit of looking at what she’s talking about
. I’m learning a lot, but I make sure I keep my face neutral. I don’t want her to stop teaching me.
It’s Jumaa so the tutor’s not coming today. Farzana’s skipping around the kitchen, knocking over the pile of dishes I still need to rinse. I’m in the middle of scrubbing the tea pot when Khalaa calls me away.
“Jameela, I’m going to have a dinner party tomorrow and you’re going to need to wear some nicer clothes. Here are some of my old things. I want you to get cleaned up and wear them tomorrow. And get rid of that shawl on your head. It’s getting ragged. This is the city. Such country fashions don’t go here.”
My porani’s only ragged because I can’t stop chewing on the corner. I’m chewing on it right now.
“You want to see the dress I’ll be wearing?” She doesn’t wait for my reply but goes to her wardrobe and pulls out a very short, very small dress. It would fit Farzana properly but it will only go to Khalaa’s knees!
“I kept it from the days before the war,” she says. “Back then we got fashions from Paris! My aunt was expert at copying them. And I’ll do my hair up in a bun.”
Why is she telling me all this? Why would she think I want to know?
I get a creepy feeling down my back and turn around. Farzana’s standing by the door. She looks at me and struts past.
“Oh, that’s beautiful! What will I wear?”
The two of them are so excited, tossing frocks on the bed, holding them up against themselves to see which ones suit them best. And yet it all feels so strange. They’re talking so loud. They keep glancing at me out of the corners of their eyes.
Do they think I’m that stupid? After a few more moments of the show, I realize that they do. They really do think I’m just a stupid villager.
I clear my throat and say respectfully, “Khalaa, the tea things are getting dried out, and I still haven’t rinsed the soap off them. May I go?”
Khalaa frowns and then nods.
“Don’t forget what I said about that shawl of yours.” I’m chewing on the end even as I leave and make myself stop. If she thinks I’m getting rid of this porani, she’s mistaken. Mor gave it to me, and no one can take it away.
I was worrying about all the cooking for this grand dinner party, but I needn’t have. Khalaa isn’t trusting me to do it. I guess I should be insulted but I’m only relieved. That would have been a lot of work! But I do have to turn the house upside down. Take all those fancy cushions outside and beat the dust out of them.
I spend over an hour whacking at those cushions until not a puff of dust rises even when I hit them my hardest.
A few hours before the party, men arrive with big pots and firewood. They build a stove right in the dirt of the alleyway. I’ve never seen men cook in such a big pot and use a shovel to stir it.
I’m wearing the new clothes Khalaa gave me and my old blue porani. Khalaa’s wearing pointy high-heeled shoes. They make a lot of noise on the floor as she comes up behind me, click, clack, click, clack.
I don’t turn around.
She taps me on the shoulder.
“I thought I told you to get rid of that old thing.”
“I can’t. I’m wearing the new clothes you gave me.” And I lift the corners of my porani. “See?”
She frowns. “I don’t like being disobeyed. Take it off. Now.”
I take a deep breath. If she wants to walk around half-naked I don’t care, but why should I?
“Khalaa, I need to wear it. It is our custom. Please understand.”
I wait. She’s chewing her lip. Finally she nods.
“Okay, then. But change it for tonight. I’ll get you a better one.”
“Oh, may Allah bless you,” I say, and I mean it. She really isn’t so bad.
When the guests arrive I can better understand why she didn’t want me wearing it. The men are wearing western clothes. Pants and jackets and ties. The women have on short tight dresses like the one Khalaa showed me.
How they stare at me, not even covering their mouths to hide their giggles. When I serve a tray of sugar-covered almonds, one of the ladies laughs and says in Farsi, “Just looking at her makes me hot!”
And here comes that smell again. The one that covered my father that first night he came home drunk.
As the night wears on it gets worse and worse. Men dancing with women, touching them, pawing them, rubbing against them, and the women just toss back their heads and laugh. What’s wrong with this agha? He sees his wife in the arms of every man and he doesn’t even care?
Just when I think it can’t get any more shameful, my father arrives and joins them. Wiggling like he’s got a scorpion trapped in his pants. He looks like a fool. I’ve seen some of those foreigners’ movies that Khalaa watches, at least parts of them. And even I can tell he’s not copying them right.
As the night passes and the drinks flow, the men and women get loud and clumsy and I’m stuck on the side waiting for Khalaa’s orders. They eat and drink and drink some more. And when they go back to eat again, the rice is falling out of their mouths because they forget to shut them while they chew. So much of it lands on Khalaa’s nice red carpet, grinding itself in. It will be terrible cleaning it tomorrow.
The worst of it all is seeing my father. I didn’t realize he was this bad. Mor used to say things sometimes when he came home late from work or after being out with his friends, but I never knew until now what she meant. I wish he wouldn’t dance with Khalaa. He seems to go to her the most.
Long into the night I’m stuck there serving them. Farzana’s supposed to be sleeping but I see her many times peeking from the staircase.
Finally, toward Fajr time, they start to leave.
Agha is unconscious in a corner, his mouth hanging open. Khalaa shakily sees her last guest off and turns around, tottering on her high heels like she’s going to fall off them. I rush to her side and prop her up.
It’s difficult getting her up the stairs in those heels. When we get to her room she collapses on the bed face first. I remove her shoes so she’ll be more comfortable and pull the blanket across her back. She’s still got her makeup on. Her pillowcases will be covered in it, and who will have to get those stains out but me?
I turn her over and get some wet tissues from the bathroom. The makeup comes off in heavy smears of red and blue and black. The tissue looks bruised by the end of it.
Without the makeup, Khalaa looks younger. I look out the window at the eastern sky. It’s alight with dawn. The whole city sleeps, even though it’s Fajr time.
I’d better hurry. I make my wudu and pray downstairs in the living room on top of my old blue porani. When I pick it up off the carpet, it has bits of crushed rice clinging to it.
Agha is passed out on the cushions. My father is not far from him, his legs straddled open, the fabric of his tight pants straining at the crotch.
I grab my comforter from the closet and lie down in the hallway, not far from those two. It will be strange sleeping with my porani on but I’ve done it before. My muscles ache with fatigue. Lying down feels so good.
I’m so tired I can’t sleep. And tears arrive like unwelcome guests in the corners of my eyes.
There is no reason for me to cry. I’ve done nothing wrong. So then why are my eyes dripping? Why is my chest bursting with sobs?
Telling myself to stop only makes the tears come faster. I feel like disaster lies just around the corner, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I turn my back to this wicked house and face the wall, snuggling into my little corner, stuffing the corner of my blue porani in my mouth.
Don’t become angry. Don’t become angry. Don’t become angry.
Gradually my fists unclench. In the growing light I can see the grooves that my fingernails have pressed into the palms of my hands.
5
I KNOW I’m dreaming. And in my dream I can see my father get up, peek at Agha lying on the cushions snoring, and creep like a thief up the stairs. And then I see scenes from the party — leering
faces, twisting in and out of shape.
I want to wake up, I want to scream, I want to shout.
Am I? There’s noise coming out of my mouth but I don’t feel myself making it.
It isn’t me. It’s coming from upstairs. I wrap myself up and run up those stairs two at a time. Agha is there ahead of me, screaming at my father to get out, slapping his wife’s head. And Farzana, darting in between, making the most noise of all.
I grab my blue porani but don’t have time to get my comb. I have to leave it behind as we’re literally shoved onto the street.
What did Baba do? No. I don’t want to know. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking straight ahead, just marching down the alleyway as if he’s got a plan, walking so quickly it’s hard to keep up.
The street’s getting crowded. He doesn’t even look behind to see if I’m there.
“Baba! Wait!”
He hears and turns around, as if he’s being generous and understanding and I’m being inconsiderate to keep him waiting.
He walks a bit more slowly now. And finally he turns to me and says, “Don’t worry. I’ve got something better for us. It was time to move on anyway.”
But I can’t help worrying.
We go in and out through alleyways until finally we get to a small house, partially ruined, either by bombs or by neglect, I can’t really tell.
A young man on crutches opens the door. He leans on one side and gestures for us to come in, as if he’s expecting us.
I don’t trust the look of him. It’s got nothing to do with the crutches. He notices when I pull my porani in a bit tighter, and he grins in a disgusting way.
I step close to Baba and tug on his sleeve. He waves me off. I tug again.
“Stop it!” he hisses.
A lady comes in. She’s wearing tight Punjabi clothes, and her porani isn’t even on her head at all, and barely covering her chest. She’s older, too, with wrinkles.
Baba greets her like they’re old friends.
“I’m ready to make the arrangements. We’ll keep it simple. Just the mullaa and a few witnesses.”
The lady smiles so wide.
Wanting Mor (Large Print 16pt) Page 3