Lucky Masood. He only has to carry two at a time.
I wish I had shoes. I’m so scared I’ll lose a toe.
My stepmother has her hands on her hips.
“Pick those up right now. And be careful next time! I don’t want any of them cracking!”
“Yes, Mother.”
At the end of the day my fingers are scratched white and bleeding in places, and I’m sore all over.
Making supper hardly even seems like work in comparison. She sent Baba to the market this morning and he brought back some eggplant, potatoes and yogurt. I’m making banjaan. We’ll have it with naan.
I slice the eggplant and potatoes extra thin so that she won’t think they’re too thick. Same with the onions. I take my time, adding ground-up garlic, salting the yogurt so that when it’s drizzled on top it will bring out the best of the flavor. It takes me longer than usual.
Baba and Masood are still out there moving the bricks around. It’s almost dark by the time I call them in.
As Baba passes me, I say, “It’s Maghrib time.”
“Then go pray,” he says. “Take Masood with you.”
Baba’s not praying again? Neither is she, but at least she might have an excuse if she’s mensing.
By the time Masood and I have finished praying, my father and his wife are using toothpicks to get the eggplant seeds out from between their teeth. There’s not much food left. My stepmother grabs a piece of eggplant and holds it up to the light.
“What is this? Were you making paper? And the potatoes and onions, too? They practically disappeared in the sauce!”
Baba laughs and takes the flimsy piece of eggplant from her hands.
“If you needed more eggplant, you should have told me. I could have bought more.” Then he pops it in his mouth.
Masood sends me a sympathetic look but doesn’t say anything. What can he say?
We sit down with the remaining food and eat slowly. He’s very considerate. There isn’t much but he keeps pushing food over to my side. I’m tempted to just take it but I don’t like being less polite, so I quietly push some of the food back.
He smacks his lips.
“Mmm. Wonderful, little sister!”
I can’t stop a big silly grin on my face. It’s ridiculous how much his bit of praise means to me. The naan is all gone so at the end we use our fingers and lick the platter clean.
The problem with making banjaan is that it takes so many pots. And now I have to wash them.
I haul myself to my feet and collect the dishes. She and Baba are still drinking from their cups. I’d like to take those cups with me now or I might forget and she’ll yell at me again. I figure the less chance I give her to yell the sooner she’ll start liking me. So I stand in front of them and wait.
She’s in the middle of saying something to my father, laughing. It’s a big joke, and out of the corner of her eyes she glances at me, but continues talking. My feet hurt, so I shift from side to side while I’m waiting. Baba doesn’t notice me standing here at all. The dishes are getting heavy, so I shift them so I have a better grip. I wouldn’t want them to fall.
I hope she’ll take a breath soon, so I can ask her if she’s finished with her cup.
Suddenly she turns to me and says, “What is your problem? Can’t you wait until I’ve finished talking? Why are you always in such a hurry?”
I look at Baba, but he just looks away.
She’s richer than we are. We need her.
She goes on, “Didn’t you ever learn any manners? It’s not polite to listen to people’s conversations. If you expect to be welcome in this house you’d better learn that quickly. I can’t stand nosy children.”
“But I was just waiting to ask you for your cup. I was going to wash it.”
She frowns.
“Well! Why didn’t you say so?”
She drinks up the last bit in her cup and then reaches over and hands me Baba’s, too.
When I turn to go into the kitchen, she adds, “And make sure you get those things properly clean. I don’t want to see any food left behind.” Then she turns back to Baba.
Baba says, “About your sister.”
“As I was saying, when my sister got married they made an extension to their house and they rented it out. I’m thinking that we could rebuild the other side and do the same.”
And they start talking about how much money that will bring in.
Before I leave the room I glance back at Baba. He’s looking my way but I’m sure he doesn’t see me. He’s got a strange grin on his face and his eyes are gleaming.
Must be all that talk of money.
As I step into the kitchen the power goes out. It might be out for hours. It reminds me of life in the village. But it will be hard to make sure the dishes get properly clean.
I fetch the little lamp and wash the dishes by its weak light. After I’ve scrubbed them, I run my hand along them to feel if there’s any crusted-on food left behind.
Masood comes in just then. I don’t bother pulling my porani across my face. In this light he can’t see much anyway. I hate to admit it, but it’s almost nice to have him here.
“Masood, did you hear what they’re planning to do?” He nods. “This idea might actually work. There are lots of people coming to Kabul and they need homes.”
“Maybe with all that money they’ll be able to buy you a leg. I’ve seen them in the marketplace. I’m sure you could find one to fit you. You’ve probably finished growing, so it would be a good time to get one.”
A look comes across his face that makes me pause in my scrubbing. It must be hard for him.
I can feel it as soon as she enters the doorway. A kind of chill sweeps across the room. Even Masood stiffens like he’s bracing himself.
She says, “Are you finished with those pots yet?”
I try to sound cheerful. “All done!”
She looks surprised, like for a moment she can’t think of what to say.
“Okay, then, come in here and sweep this floor. There’s crumbs all over it.”
I carry the lamp into the other room. It’s so dark I can’t see the dirt.
“Could I wait till the power comes back on?”
She bends her neck toward me, watching me suspiciously.
I keep my face straight. I have such a feeling, one wrong move and she’ll pounce.
Finally she says, “Okay. When the power goes on you get it done right away. Don’t make me come and find you. I don’t want any dirt in any of the corners. I’m sure there are rats about. And make sure you get under the sofa, you hear me?”
I nod.
“Well, I guess you have some time to do what you want till then.”
I go out into the courtyard. I wonder if that cat is there.
It’s a cold clear night and the stars are so bright, they feel close, almost close enough to touch. There’s a slight breeze blowing in from the east. It makes me shiver and pull my porani in.
I hunch down against the wall of the house. It’s a little warmer here.
I pick up a stick, and in the dirt at my feet I scratch out a jeem. And then a ha, without the dot, and then a kha with the dot on top.
Jeem, for Jameela. I wish I knew the other letters.
The door opens suddenly and I quickly rub out the letters I’ve been drawing.
It’s Masood.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just practicing letters. Do you know how to read?”
He nods. “Do you want me to show you?”
He picks up my stick and writes out the alphabet. I get to my feet.
“No, wait. Write it over here, where it won’t get messed up and I can look at it in the day.”
He shrugs. “Okay.”
With each letter he says its name and I repeat it. It feels like a secret that is finally being revealed to me.
“How do you write my name?”
It’s all one long series of strokes. It’s beautiful. And I was right.
It does start with a jeem. I can see it there, right at the beginning, with that little curly part and the dot underneath.
I pick up the stick to copy it when I hear a footstep behind me.
It’s her.
“What’s going on here?”
I jump to my feet and spin around. Masood looks incredibly guilty. My stepmother tries to see behind us but we both block her view.
She shoves me to the side and I land on the heap of bricks. Bending over, she peers at the marks in the dirt.
“What is this? Masood, why are you wasting her time?” Then she turns to me. “Don’t you know the power’s back on? Get in there and sweep that floor.”
“Yes, Mother.”
I hope she doesn’t erase those marks. I wish it so hard. I would do anything she wants, if she just doesn’t erase those marks.
Then I hear her yelling at Masood.
“Stop filling her head with useless ideas! They won’t make her a better worker!”
Masood mumbles something I can’t make out.
“What did you say?” she hisses.
“What does it have to do with you if I teach her?” he says.
And I hear a slap, flat on the top of his head. He gets to his feet and rushes to his room.
She’s still yelling after him and then I can hear her rubbing her feet on the ground.
The sound of rubber sandals erasing the letters in the dirt is unmistakable.
8
IT‘S NOT eavesdropping if your father and stepmother are yelling so loudly in the next room that you can’t help but hear.
She says, “I’m telling you I’ve tried my hardest to be patient, but there’s no getting along with her! And now she’s turned my own son against me! With all I’ve done for him. I never thought I’d see the day when he would raise his voice to me, and for her!”
My father murmurs something that I can’t hear.
“What’s talking going to do? She doesn’t listen. She can’t even do simple little things right. I know what she’s thinking when she looks at me, and I can’t stand it any more.”
I hear the clink of glass on glass. He’s taking another drink. I can almost picture him lifting that disgusting smelly stuff to his lips. He says something again.
And she says, “He’ll be getting married one day. His wife will...” The rest is garbled.
I pick up the pot that I am supposed to be scrubbing and attack it with all the energy I have left. When I’ve finished it’s cleaner than I’ve ever seen it before.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I haven’t been putting in enough effort. It’s not like when I did things for Mor.
Mor. Why did she have to die? If she were here I wouldn’t be in this situation.
Am I questioning Allah’s will? Like Baba? Asthaghfirullah!
She would be so mad at me for thinking like this.
Sometimes I wish I could just lie down and not wake up. Die while I’m still good, before I have a chance to go bad. Because if I go bad, everything I don’t even let myself think now would come pouring out of me.
There are no pots left to wash, but I can’t just sit here. I have to get up. Get back to work.
There is something else I could do. I get the broom bristles and head to the sitting room. There are still some chicken bones from the wedding feast stuck way back beside the sofa leg. If I just push myself under this sofa a bit more I can reach them.
There. I did it. Now she should be happy. There’s really nothing left to do now but wait. So I wrap my porani around me and hug my knees.
That’s when I realize how quiet it is.
“Jameela.” My father calls from the other room.
He’s sitting on the sofa, leaning against the wall like he doesn’t have the strength to sit up on his own. His glass is half full of that stinky stuff. The bottle has very little left.
“You need to get your things together,” he says. “It’s time to go.” He doesn’t look at me as he gets to his feet.
We’re leaving?! I run to him and give him a big hug. At first he seems surprised. His arms are held out away from me, but finally he relaxes and hugs me back, real tight. And he spills some of his drink.
It doesn’t take me long to pack. I don’t have much. Just an extra set of clothes and my new comb. But she gave it to me. Maybe I should leave it here. No, I’ll take it. Consider it payment for all the work I’ve done.
I bundle my things in my extra porani and make a loop as a handle so it’s easy to carry.
Baba’s calling again. I’d better hurry. I wouldn’t want him to change his mind. We’ll be all right. I wish Masood were here so I could say goodbye, but she sent him on some errand.
It’s hard to keep up. Through this alley, round that corner, right, then left. In no time I’ve lost all sense of direction. The streets of Kabul are a maze. I’ll never figure them out. It’s been a long time since I’ve got out to walk. I’m gasping to catch my breath.
I can hardly hear what he’s saying. Something about how things have changed. And did he say something about long ago in Arabia? My heart’s pounding in my ears. All I can make out at the end of it is, “You know that?”
I nod, even though I have no idea what he was talking about.
He turns around again to continue walking, but he stumbles. I reach out to stop him from falling. He pauses, looking at me for a moment. Tears come into his eyes.
It’s a glimmer of the way Mor used to look at me, and hope fills my heart. Maybe things will really be different now.
He says, “You’re a good girl. You’ll be fine.”
Insha Allah. Why is he talking like this? He sounds so strange.
And then he’s walking again at that breakneck speed. Muttering something about opportunities and grabbing a chance at happiness while he can.
Is he questioning his decision to leave her? It can’t be easy. She’s so rich. We were guaranteed a home there. Now it will be tough again for a little while but I’m sure we’ll be fine, as long as we have each other. He can count on me. I’ll work hard. Maybe we can find another family to work for, better than the first place.
We get to a major intersection. Shops line the street. Little darkened huts all crammed together selling oranges and grapes and fabric and naan. There are cars, trucks, oxen, horses and people all jamming the road carrying things, going places, raising up dust to choke my throat and land on the fruit and fabric and naan. It’s like that day we arrived here.
“Come, Jameela. Stand right here. I need to do something.”
I grab hold of his sleeve.
“Where are you going?”
His face is twisted. He doesn’t look at me. “Never mind.”
I let go of his sleeve. He hitches up his shoulder to make his shirt fall properly. Then he takes five steps out into the crowd and does a strange thing. He looks back at me for a moment. For just a moment, our gaze is locked over the distance that separates us.
Then some people pass in front of me and when they move away, he’s gone.
He’s acting so strange. If I were taller I’d be able to see above people’s heads and watch where he goes. I hope he doesn’t take too long. But why did he tell me to wait here? He’s always just dragged me along.
Maybe he saw that I was getting tired. It’s good to rest. He didn’t say I had to stand all the time, did he? But if I sit down maybe he’ll pass by without seeing me. It can get very confusing here in the marketplace.
I’m nestled between two very dirty shops. There’s a butcher to the right of me with cuts of meat hanging from the ceiling. On the left is a type of garage place with greasy automobile parts.
The butcher’s shop has this strange kind of curled-up strip hanging from the ceiling near the meat. It’s dotted with little black things. They look like bits of thread. I can’t figure out what they are until a fly buzzes closer and then lands on the strip and gets stuck, adding one more speck to the strip. Fly carcasses.
The new fly victim is trying to get of
f. I see it push itself up, but it’s hopelessly stuck. For a surprisingly long time it struggles. Then it stops, and for a moment I think it’s dead. But the next time I look, it’s trying again.
I hate flies, but dying that way just seems cruel. I’d rather smash it with a stick.
My feet start stinging after a while. I’ll just sit down for a moment.
From this angle people look very tall. I’ve been indoors for so long that it’s fun to just watch them rushing by with their parcels. They don’t even glance at me, but sometimes their children do. They stare at me with big round eyes and pause for a moment, until their mother or father yanks on their arm and they get going again.
The shadow in the street starts to shrink. When we arrived, the shade stretched out over me halfway into the street. Now it barely covers my toes. It’s going to be Zuhr time soon.
The butcher, a man with a big bushy moustache, comes out to stand at the doorway. He glances at me. I pull my porani in closer. He turns and goes back inside.
When will Baba come? He’s taking so long.
My stomach growls so I give it a punch to settle it down. I wish I had some water to make wudu. Maybe I can ask the butcher. He looks like a nice man. But Baba’s going to come soon, insha Allah. He can’t be much longer. And what if I go back to make wudu just as he comes by and then we miss each other?
I’d better wait. I’m tired of watching the people, tired of checking each man’s face to see if it belongs to Baba. All these people, I wish they’d get out of the way.
Where is my father?
The butcher has come out of his shop again, and this time he looks at me for a long time.
“Where did your father go, little girl?”
My stomach growls again so loud, I think he heard it. I sit up a bit straighter.
“I don’t know.” But I don’t like the way that sounds so I add, “He’s coming right back.”
The man nods. “Well, if you need anything, let me know.”
That was kind of him. A customer comes by. He calls the butcher Akram. They go back into the shop, and I hear them bargaining back and forth in a friendly way.
Wanting Mor (Large Print 16pt) Page 5