“Yes. And a few relations.” She gestures to the man on the crutches. “Masood, dear, go to the market and pick up some meat. We’ll have a feast tonight.”
Mullaa? Feast? What?! Is Baba going to marry her? Just like that?
Baba finally seems to remember me.
“Jameela, this will be your new mother.”
The lady smiles with her mouth but not with her eyes.
“Welcome to your new home.”
I guess it could be worse. At least we’ll have part of a roof over our heads.
My mother-to-be takes us on a tour of the house, at least the half that’s standing. A high wall surrounds a large courtyard. The buildings on the right are rubble. On the other side is what’s left of the house: three rooms and a kitchen. Once upon a time it might have been as grand as the place we just left.
The lady has a wardrobe full of her dead husband’s clothes. They’re from another time and too big on Baba, but he finds a nice suit to wear and they even find some new clothes for me.
How can this be a bad thing? At least Baba won’t be looking at another man’s wife. Maybe she’ll be a nice mother. In any case, we’ll have a roof over our heads, we’ll be family. You can’t kick out family no matter what they do. Before I was working hard for Khalaa. Now I’ll be working hard for her. I’ll try to be nice to her. I’ll do my best, even though she could never take the place of Mor.
I spend all afternoon in the kitchen cutting vegetables and stirring pots of food. She’s much harder to please than Khalaa. Several times I cut the onions too thick and the carrots too thin. I’ll have to try harder. At least I’m away from Masood’s bold stare.
The mullaa arrives. He’s a fat man wearing a white kurtha and a chitral hat. I thought my new stepmother would be the type to invite a lot of people, but in the end only her sister’s family comes. Where are the others?
The sister looks just like her, but more pinched. Her nose is pointier and she has a sour expression. Her husband smiles a lot but doesn’t say much. He has very few teeth and a moustache. Three of their kids are chasing each other around the coffee table, tripping on wrinkles in the red and black carpet.
It’s while I’m frying almonds, raisins and sliced carrots in butter that I hear my stepmother and her sister whispering in the hallway just outside the kitchen.
Her sister says, “What are you thinking? You can do better than this. They look like beggars!”
“You don’t know what it’s like to lose a man. Look at my son, look at my house. It will be all right. You’ll see.”
“But that girl! She’s already looking down her nose at you. She’ll be cozying up to Masood before you know it.”
“Never!”
“Sister, this is crazy.”
“Sssh. They’ll hear. Never mind. I’ve got plans.”
Then they hustle into the big room to get ready for the nikah.
Do I really look down my nose at them? And if I do, don’t they do the same to me?
Still, Mor wouldn’t like it. She’d want me to do my best to get along with them.
My father’s calling me to join them. I clutch the corner of my porani to my face. I wish I was wearing my old blue one, even if it is ragged.
I join the women. The men are around the corner in the other part of the room. The mullaa starts reading his marriage khutba. It’s in Arabic so I don’t understand a word. I wish I did. It’s the language of the Quran. I would love to know what it really says.
We get to the part where Masood, acting as walee for his mother, offers her hand in marriage to my father. A crazy part of me wants to scream “No!” and drag my father out of here.
I shove the corner of my porani into my mouth to keep silent. Quietly my father accepts the offer, three times. The witnesses lend their blessing. My father presents the mehr to the woman. It is all the money he has left from selling our things. Then it’s done.
I smile as big as I can, trying to look as happy as possible. My stepmother feels stiff when she hugs me. Maybe she’s just not a hugging type of person. It feels so strange and then it occurs to me that it’s been a long time since anyone has hugged me or even touched me. And then I think back to when was the last time. It was Mor, the night before she died.
I fetch the platter of basmati rice covered in the almonds, strips of carrots and raisins that I just fried. There’s chicken and koftas, little balls of spicy meat in a rich red sauce. They took a long time to make. And we have some kebabs as well, sprinkled with sliced onions and coriander leaves.
It’s the second night in a row that we’ve had rich food, but tonight I actually feel like eating.
We all eat from one platter. Mor loved almonds, but she would have thought serving them like this was strange. We don’t put them in rice. Maybe this is what they do in Kabul. I pick out the almonds and put them to the side of my food. I’ll save them for later.
My new aunt and stepmother are eating quickly, cramming the food into their mouths and the mouths of the children. There’s only one kofta left. Where did it all go?
I reach for it but Khalaa snatches it first. Then she gives me a look and smiles. She passes it to her daughter.
That’s okay. I’ll have a kebab. There are two of those left. I reach for one but my new stepmother has picked them up. Both of them at once.
When she sees me pull my hand back, she says, “Oh, did you want one?”
“It’s okay,” I say, but secretly I hope she’ll give me one. She doesn’t.
A look passes between her and her sister and finally it hits me. I’m so dumb. They did it on purpose.
The chicken’s all gone, too. Oh well. At least my belly’s filled with rice. And I have the almonds.
They’re shiny with butter and taste so good.
The men take out a large drum and start playing. The women get up to dance. I thought these people were different. I thought they were more traditional. Women dancing in front of men! But I guess we’re all family now.
I pull my porani in closer to myself and huddle into my corner. I know I’m looking down my nose at them but I can’t help it.
6
WHAT AM I supposed to call her? Not Mor. Never Mor.
If I’m careful, I probably won’t have to call her anything.
The guests have all gone and a strange silence has descended. Those kids were messy. There’s spilled rice and chicken bones under the sofa.
“Jameela, gather up the dishes...dear, and start cleaning them.”
I hardly slept last night and I’ve been helping them cook all day. The muscles in my arms and legs complain.
“Couldn’t I do them in the morning?”
Baba gives me a look. “Listen to your mother.”
I nod and get to my feet. It’s going to be a long night.
This lady doesn’t have fancy powdered soap in a bucket. I use fireplace ash to wash the dishes. When I come out to look for more things to wash I realize that she and my father have gone into their room and left me alone with Masood.
“Little sister, now that we’re family, you don’t need to cover up in front of me like that.”
I frown. I’m not sure what the ruling is about such things. But I’m not taking the chance.
There’s a cup sitting on a low table beside him. I ask him to pass it to me.
He makes a face. “I can’t reach.”
It’s right beside him.
I just leave it and take the rest of the stuff into the kitchen.
By the time I’ve finished all the washing, it’s late and I’m exhausted. Masood has gone to bed. It’s been a long day. I pray Isha. I don’t know where I’m supposed to sleep so I curl up in a corner of the main room. It’s quite comfortable with this carpet beneath me.
Better than the floor at that first place.
I hear giggling. It must be her.
I should fall asleep instantly. I’m so tired and yet I lie here staring into the darkness.
Then I see a shadow move in th
e corner of the room and I sit up. What is it? A rat? I reach into the pocket of my dress for the matches I keep there. Where’s that little clay oil lamp? It was on the table beside where Masood was sitting.
I’m making a lot of noise, and the black shadow runs along the far wall. By the time I have light, it’s gone beneath the crack of the door.
I carry the lamp by its little handle and step out into the courtyard. The stars are shining brightly. Kabul is quiet and deeply cold. I pull my porani close. The pile of rubble across the courtyard is a huge mound. I see a silhouette outlined against the stars. It’s too big for a rat so I raise the lamp higher. Two eyes glow green in a jet black face.
A cat. Suddenly I feel a bit safer.
It bends its head, sniffing the rubble. Its fur is snarled and one of its ears is torn. A battle-scarred warrior. I slip back into the room and lie still, feeling a bit better.
Maybe things will be all right. Didn’t Khalaa at the other place seem like she would be terrible? And wasn’t I able to win her over with hard work? Why should it be so different with my new stepmother? She has more reason to like me. If I can’t be beautiful at least I should be good. I’ll work hard and I’ll do it without complaining.
Before I know it my eyes have opened from a restful sleep. The darkness has turned into a dim grayness. Dawn is on its way.
I have to break a thin film of ice off the surface of the water in the jar to make wudu. I use as little water as possible but even then I’m shivering. After Fajr, I start the fire and sweep out the kitchen area with the broom. I wonder how my stepmother likes her tea.
There’s a little buffalo milk but I don’t see any sugar. There’s also a bit of food left over from the wedding feast. It might be too soon to heat it. Who knows when they’ll wake up?
I hear some rocks falling outside and run to see what it is. It’s that black cat again. It’s got the body of a huge rat in its mouth. It ignores me, climbing the rubble to get away.
When I turn to go back inside, Masood is standing in the doorway.
How long has he been standing there? My porani is open, my face is showing. Quickly I cover myself up but it’s too late. He’s already had a good look.
“No wonder you hide yourself.”
“That’s not why I cover!” I would cover myself even if I was the most beautiful girl in the world. Especially if I was beautiful!
He shushes me with his hand.
“I know, I know. I’m just teasing. What’s wrong with your lip?”
I shrug. “I was born this way.”
He’s standing right in the middle of the doorway. I’d have to go too close to squeeze past. I guess he sees me hesitate, and then, ever so slowly, he moves himself over with his crutches, as if he’s being polite.
I’d like to kick that crutch out from beneath him. See him fall flat on his face.
With a little hop step, he follows me into the kitchen.
“Did you make me some tea?”
I did, but now I wish I hadn’t. I point at the pot.
He looks at me for a moment like he expects me to pour it for him, but I won’t.
“Help yourself.”
He puts both of his crutches together, leans heavily on the crossbar in the middle of them and lowers himself down to the floor. He lays them on the side and then picks up the pot by its handle.
Then he realizes that the cup is sitting on a shelf above him.
By this time I feel kind of sorry for him so I reach over to get the cup, but he says, “No! I’ll do it myself.”
Painfully he pulls himself up the same way he lowered himself down, grabs the cup in his teeth and lowers himself back down again. His leg looks so strange where it’s missing below the knee. He pours himself the tea and sits back, cupping it in his hands like he’s cold.
I grab another cup, squat down and pour myself some tea, too.
It’s so easy for me. Subhanallah. The things I take for granted.
“What happened to your leg?”
“Landmine.”
“How old were you?”
He pauses. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“We’re family now, I guess.”
“I was ten, playing soccer in a field. I didn’t know there were mines.”
“That’s a stupid way to get hurt. I thought you at least lost it fighting the Russians.”
He looks at me sharply.
“I’m not that old.”
“What happened to your father?”
He shrugs. “The Americans killed him. Three years ago. He died in prison.”
His silence makes me squirm. It makes me wish I hadn’t asked. His lips are twitching or something. Is he trying not to cry?
In a hoarse voice he says, “What about you? Where’s your mother?”
At the thought of her, tears prick my eyes. There’s no nice way to put it so I just blurt it out.
“She got sick and died.”
He nods, like he’s not surprised at all.
“Where’s the rest of your family?” he says.
“Gone.”
“What do you mean? Did they go somewhere?”
“They’re dead.”
“All of them?”
I nod and hope he doesn’t ask any more questions.
“What happened? How could they all be gone?”
I stare at him for a moment. I’ve never talked about it to anyone. And now my throat is tight. I might cry. Will he make fun of me? What can I do if he does?
It doesn’t matter so I tell him.
“My father’s family is originally from Kabul. Most of them died and the others left for India. We don’t know where they are now. My mother’s family is mostly dead, too. One of my mother’s cousins was getting married. They were so happy!”
“And your family, they were shooting in the air to celebrate.” It isn’t a question. He knows.
“They were bombed.”
“How come you didn’t die?”
“We didn’t go. My father was fighting with one of my aghas.”
Masood says, “One of my aghas was blown up. He looked like a pile of bread crumbs.”
I nod. There usually isn’t a lot left of them.
I say, “My father recognized my agha, the one he was fighting with, by a piece of his jaw. The villagers helped us gather them up. We didn’t bother trying to separate the parts into who was who. We just buried what we could find in one box. I’ll never forget the smell.”
I don’t tell Masood that my father hasn’t been the same since. Even if he is family he doesn’t have to know that.
Quietly Masood says, “That was a very big test. The stronger you are, the harder Allah will test you.”
I pull my porani a bit closer even though I’m not feeling cold. Mor said the prophets were always tested the worst. And then the believers. She said there’s always one moment when you either pass or fail.
“Sometimes your test is a huge thing, and sometimes it’s little,” I say.
Masood pours more tea into his cup.
“Do you think your leg was your test?” I say.
He takes a sip and frowns.
“I don’t know. I hope there’s not too much more coming.”
“Me, too.”
He picks up his crutches. He’s ready to get up. But before he goes, one thing is still bothering me. Any way I say it, it will sound rude. But I’ve got to ask.
“How did all this happen?”
“What?”
I point in the direction of his mother’s bedroom.
“You know. This.”
“My mother.” He pauses and grimaces like he tastes something bad. “She wanted it. And well, I met your father and he seemed okay. He was always laughing and joking at the job site. Anyway, our boss liked him and your father came over for the past few weeks. And then yesterday, all of a sudden, he made up his mind.”
I can just picture that last scene at the other place and why he made up his mind. My face gets hot. I look
up to see Masood watching me.
He’s about to say something when we hear some heavy footsteps approaching. His eyes flick back to the doorway and he whispers, “If you want to get along with my mother, learn to stay out of her way.”
Before I can ask him what he means, the door flies open and she appears holding the cup I left sitting on that low table.
“What are you two whispering about in here?”
Masood says, “Nothing!”
My stepmother looks at me carefully. I say nothing. I don’t even squirm under the force of her glare. I have not done anything to be ashamed of. I won’t let her make me feel guilty.
Finally she says, “What happened to washing this? What other dirty dishes can I find lying around this place?”
Masood touches his mother’s arm. “Mor. Gentle.”
I jump to my feet. “I’m so sorry. I’ll wash it right now. I made some tea... Would you like some?”
Her face softens a bit and she glances at the cups we were using.
“Make it hot. And warm me some of the food from last night. I’m starving.”
In no time I have the rice sizzling in a pan and the tea bubbling. There’s no meat left, but there are some almonds. My stomach rumbles and I realize that I’m hungry, too, so I snatch a few of the nuts.
She’ll never miss them.
She sits down right there in the kitchen, grabbing a folded plastic tablecloth as a mini dusterkhan and starts eating. Pushing the plate toward Masood, she gestures to him to join her, then she glances at me.
“Would you like some?”
Masood looks away, embarrassed.
She actually asked me. I can’t say yes. It would be too rude, so I shake my head and pull my porani around me.
She doesn’t insist. When there’s a third of the rice left she tells Masood to cover it and leave it for my father.
7
I CAN feel my neck muscles bulging, straining with the weight of these bricks. I can’t hold them any longer.
“Where should I put them?”
“Just wait a minute while your father gets that side ready,” my stepmother says.
I can’t, and they drop while I jump out of the way so they don’t crush my toes. They bounce off the dirt of the courtyard. Eight bricks out of the hundreds or thousands that are still piled up. My stepmother has decided we’re going to save what we can of them. Baba’s going to get some cement and we’ll rebuild the ruined walls.
Wanting Mor (Large Print 16pt) Page 4