The day has got quite warm. The sun is angled down on me now. My mouth is dry.
When the butcher has finished with his customer he comes back outside again.
“You’ve been sitting there for a long time. I’ve made some soup. It’s too much for me. Would you like some?”
I must refuse. He’s just being polite. I open my mouth to say no, but other words come out.
“Yes, please. Tashakur.”
He smiles so that his bushy moustache twitches upward, and in no time he brings me back a bowl. There are bits of onion and garlic and turnip, I think.
I need to lower my porani to eat it. He’ll see my lip but there’s nothing else I can do. I don’t want to go into his shop. It would be too private. And what if Baba came while I was away?
I turn my back to the crowds so my face is somewhat hidden. When I’ve finished, I look up to see the man watching.
He smiles widely. “Oh, look how fast you ate that. Please have some more.”
Even while I’m saying no, he brings the pot and spoons more into my bowl.
After the second bowl, he’s about to pour a third, but I say, “No, please. I’m full.” I think he can tell that I really mean it this time.
He glances at what’s left in the pot and says, “Maybe we should save the rest for your father when he returns.”
I have a feeling that this man hasn’t eaten, so I tell him, “No, please. Go ahead and eat. I’m not sure when he’s coming back.”
He starts drinking right out of the pot and I realize that I must have been using his bowl. My face is hot. Why didn’t it occur to me before?
He swirls the soup in the pot, not looking at me, and says, “So where is your mother?”
“Dead.”
He nods and takes another sip. There’s a bit of soup dripping from the ends of his bushy moustache. I cover my face to hide my smile.
“I know every vendor in this market. What was your father looking for? I’ll tell you where he probably went.”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. Maybe he was looking for a job or a house. We just left our old place.”
He’s watching me with a strange look on his face. “Well, we’ll just wait and see then. I need to go pray Zuhr. Call me if a customer comes by.”
I nod. “I need to pray, too.”
I feel like I said the right thing. The man smiles and says, “I’ll bring out my mat for you. You can make wudu at the back of my store. There’s a washroom there.”
I feel nervous about going to the back of his store. Mor always said that if a girl is alone with a man who is not closely related by blood, then the third with them is shaitan.
“Agha, is it okay if you just bring out some water for me to make wudu out here?”
The man looks at me for a moment. I wonder if he’s offended. He must realize I don’t quite trust him.
Then he nods. “Of course. I’ll bring some right away.”
Everything inside me is telling me this man is okay, but still. His mat has pictures of the Kaaba and Medina mosque on it. It’s very fine, but it’s been used a lot. I can tell by the worn spots where his hands and knees have rested, a good sign. I pray my Zuhr right there on the street. It isn’t hard. People don’t bump me or anything. In fact they go out of their way not to disturb me.
Every so often the butcher comes out to check on me.
“Has he come yet?”
I shake my head. I wish he’d stop asking.
The shadows are beginning to grow on the other side of the street. The traffic isn’t as thick as before.
Where could Baba be? Whatever he had to do couldn’t have taken him this long. Did he forget about me? He was pretty drunk. But even drunk, how do you forget your own daughter? Maybe he’s been in an accident. Maybe he’s lying somewhere bleeding to death.
Maybe.
By the time the shadows have reached across the road and are starting to chill my feet, the butcher is pulling down the metal grill that will lock up his shop.
He’s looking at me with pity in his eyes.
“Still not back?”
I drop my head onto my knees so he can’t see my watery eyes.
“You can’t stay out here all night. Why don’t you come home to my family? My wife has made some supper, and you’re just about my daughter’s age.”
“But what if he comes while I’m gone?”
He looks up and down the street, squinting into the setting sun.
“I don’t think he’s going to come now. If he comes, he’ll come tomorrow. And we can be back here early in the morning.” He pauses.
What if it’s a trap? What if this man is only pretending to be kind and all along is planning to lure me into some bad situation? I’ve heard of things happening, especially to girls.
But then I doubt they’d want to do anything to me. Not with my lip and all.
“Little girl, you can’t stay here tonight. It isn’t safe.”
He’s right. I ask Allah for guidance. Should I go with him? My heart feels calm and easy about it. He just doesn’t feel dangerous.
I get up and grab my bundled-up porani.
“Okay, I’ll come.”
He takes me down one street and along another. I pull threads out of my porani to leave a bit of a trail, so I can find my way back to that street if I have to. I wish I’d done that this morning when we were leaving her house.
After a while we get to a shop with a doorway on the side. He unlocks the door and leads me up a flight of dark, dirty stairs. I’m a few steps behind him. If he turns on me, I can run back down the stairs and get away.
But he doesn’t turn, and instead he opens a door and three little boys and a girl my age jump at him with joy. Behind them is a nice-looking lady.
When the children see me they stare with their mouths hanging open. The lady, his wife, glances at him, then recovers and says, “Welcome.”
It’s while he’s telling his wife what happened to me that the tears really start coming. Their daughter’s name is Tahira. She brings me a tissue. It’s soaked in no time.
After supper, I help Tahira with the dishes and cleaning up, trying to do as much as I can.
The lady keeps telling me I’m their guest and I don’t have to do all that, but I insist. They’ve been so kind.
Then we pray Isha and we’re sent to bed in a tiny room. The girl’s asleep in no time. I could poke her and she wouldn’t wake up. She’s lying there on her back, open to the world.
I can’t remember the last time I slept like that. For the longest while I’ve been curling up as tight as I can, with my knees tucked in, right up to my chin. It’s the only way I feel safe.
I curl up and try to make myself drowsy but sleep won’t come. Maybe it’s the bed. It’s so soft and comfortable. Can it be that I’m used to the floor?
I’m careful when I get out of the bed, even though it doesn’t seem like anything would wake Tahira.
I curl up with my back to the wall and feel a bit better, but I still can’t sleep. Maybe it’s that I can’t help worrying about my father. I can just picture him hitching up his shirt that last time so it fell right.
And that’s when I realize.
When we left her house, I had all my things, but Baba’s hands were empty. He hadn’t taken anything of his own.
9
MAYBE he went back to get his belongings. But then why would it have taken so long?
I go through a thousand different reasons why he never came back, but none of them makes any sense. Except one.
What was he saying while we were rushing through those streets? I could barely hear him. Wasn’t it something about ancient Arabia? Was he talking about what they did to the girl children back then? Was he saying at least he wasn’t going to do that to me?
What am I going to do? Where will I live?
If I clean up this apartment before they wake up in the morning, maybe these nice people will let me stay.
What’s wrong with me? I
sound so stupid.
Why would they need me to clean when they have Tahira? They’re not rich. They wouldn’t need a servant.
If only I could read. People pay for their children to learn Quran. If I could teach their kids then maybe they would let me stay.
What will I say to Agha Akram in the morning? What can I say?
This little house has such a different feel to it. The silence isn’t empty like at the first place, and it isn’t cold like at her house.
It’s a soft darkness. Peaceful.
The next thing I know I’m being tapped on my arm. In the gray dimness I can see the shadowy shape of Tahira.
“Wake up, sleepy. It’s Fajr time.”
The whole family’s awake. Khalaa already has her porani on and is doing her sunnah. Even two of the little boys are awake. They’ve got their little kufis on. The hems of their pants are rolled up so I can see their tiny feet and knobby ankles. They’re elbowing each other in the middle of their sunnah until Agha sees and pulls them apart.
They actually pray together as a family, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I pray my sunnah with such a strange feeling growing in my chest. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. I feel so fortunate to be here in this tiny apartment and I don’t want this moment to end. If only it could stay like this forever.
When I’ve finished my sunnah, I wait beside Khalaa. Tahira’s still praying. Khalaa catches my eye and smiles. And I really do feel welcome.
When Tahira’s finished, we all stand up as one, without a word, and Ali, the oldest of the boys, says the iqama in a scratchy little voice.
There’s something comforting about the practical way Tahira yanks off her porani and dumps it in a corner after we pray. Khalaa gets to her feet and takes the boys off to bed.
But Agha Akram opens the curtain and takes out a Quran. He reads by the growing light of dawn.
His lips move like they’re silently saying the words.
I guess he senses me watching him because he looks up and says, “Are you all right?”
I nod. Mor used to recite Quran after Fajr. She taught me some of what she knew but we didn’t get very far. First things were crazy with the bombings, and then she got too sick.
Agha Akram glances toward Tahira’s room. “You can go back to sleep if you want. I don’t mean to disturb you.”
It feels as though I’m the one disturbing him. So I take the hint and leave.
I close the door gently. I wish I had the courage to ask him to show me what he was reading.
Tahira’s already asleep. I curl up back in my corner.
The next thing I know I hear the footsteps of someone who’s trying not to make noise and my eyes open. It’s Tahira. She’s carefully opening a dresser drawer, trying to get out some socks. She’s wearing a school uniform complete with a matching hijab. Now I feel jealous.
There’s a light knock on the door. Khalaa pokes her head in and whispers, “Is she awake?”
I sit up to show them I am.
She smiles at me. “Breakfast is ready.”
It feels so strange to be served breakfast, not to have made it myself. We have milky tea with naan. The boys sit with their legs crossed, wearing their own little uniforms.
Agha Akram mutters the dua and takes a good-sized bite. While he’s chewing he says, “Don’t worry, Jameela. I’ll go early to my shop and see if your father has come.”
Should I tell him what I figured out? What if I’m wrong? What if Baba does show up? Better just see what happens.
My porani has slipped away from my face while I’m eating, and both of the boys are staring at me with big round eyes.
“What happened to your lip?” says Ali.
I quickly cover up my mouth.
Agha Akram gives Ali a nudge.
“But it looks so funny,” Ali says. “What happened to it?”
Agha Akram glares at him.
It’s hard for me to say, “I was born like this.”
“Oh,” says Ali. The other boys stare at me even more. Khalaa and Agha Akram look away. Tahira offers me another piece of naan. The food is good but I can’t eat any more. My stomach feels too nervous.
I say, “Should I come with you, Agha?”
“If you’d like.”
I’m wondering if I should leave my bundle of clothes here or take them with me. If I leave them here they might think badly of me, so I’d better take them.
I tidy up Tahira’s room before I go. She left it a whirlwind mess of clothes and bedsheets.
Just as I’m leaving with her husband, Khalaa pats my head and kisses my forehead.
It feels so good to be touched.
“Tashakur for everything,” I say, but the words sound weak and useless. They would be fine if they’d passed me a spoon or brought me a cup of water.
Tashakur doesn’t cover all they did for me. And yet saying too much more would be embarrassing.
She seems to understand and she nods at me. She’s a very quiet woman, doesn’t say much at all, but I can feel that it’s all right with her.
In the street below I look for the little threads from my porani that I dropped to find the way back to Agha Akram’s shop. The wind must have blown them away, or maybe some bird used them to line her nest. Anyway, I can’t see even one so I guess I can feel better about not thinking of dropping threads when we left that woman’s house.
It’s so early that the other shops are still closed. I’m not surprised to see no one waiting by Agha Akram’s shop. He looks disappointed. Is it because he’s stuck with me for another day?
“Don’t worry, Jameela. I’ll ask around. They all know me. They’ll keep an eye out for him.”
I nod because I can’t say anything. Something inside me is dead.
Agha Akram pulls up the metal grill that protects his store and goes inside. It smells like dried blood. He’s not very tidy. There’s a broom in the corner that looks like it’s never been used.
Without asking I start sweeping out the shop. He objects, but I insist. I feel better to be doing something.
There are places on the wall where countless hands have left black marks. If I had a bucket of soapy water I could wash them. I find one in the back, but the only soap is an old cake of hard yellow stuff. I don’t think it will work.
“Please, Jameela. Leave that. It isn’t necessary. We might as well go back home until midday. That’s when business picks up.”
The automobile mechanic shop is open. Agha Akram goes over to the man and starts speaking to him. I stand outside where I waited yesterday, chewing on the corner of my porani.
Agha Akram is waving his arms around while he’s talking. He looks really angry. The other man glances over at me several times, shaking his head in pity.
Then the mechanic nods and presses a bill into Agha Akram’s hand.
Agha says, “No brother, I don’t need it.”
“It’ll help,” he insists.
Agha tries to refuse several times. It’s funny to watch them struggling back and forth trying to give each other the money. Finally the mechanic pats Agha on the back and calmly insists. Agha Akram puts it in his pocket and thanks him.
He says to me, “My neighbor will look out for your father. And he’ll ask if any of the other vendors have seen him. You don’t need to worry that you’ll miss him.”
Once we get around the corner, out of sight of the mechanic’s shop, Agha Akram turns to me and says, “Can I trust you not to waste money?”
I nod.
“Here, then. You take this money that he gave me. You’re going to need it. Don’t spend it on foolishness. Keep it for emergency.”
I hold the bill in my hand. It feels soft. I wonder how many hands it has passed through. There are letters and numbers on it. What do they say? I’ve never held more than a few coins in my life.
“How much money is this?”
Agha Akram looks at me like I just said a very stupid thing. I feel my face ge
tting hot.
He takes the bill and points at the numbers in the corners. A circle followed by dots.
“That says five, then zero and another zero. Five hundred. This is five hundred Afghanis.”
“Is that a lot of money?”
“About two days’ wages! You keep it hidden. Don’t let others see that you have it.”
I tuck it away inside a fold of my dress.
I watch the route carefully, trying to memorize the twists and turns. It’s not that hard. When we get back to the Akrams’ place, Khalaa gets up to make some tea but I stop her and ask if I can do it.
Back and forth we argue like Agha Akram and the mechanic. Doesn’t she realize that I don’t like to be always on the receiving side?
Agha finally says, “It’s okay. Let her do it.”
Only the baby is at home. All the children have gone to school. Agha takes his wife inside their room and talks to her quietly. I think he’s telling her the same thing he told the mechanic. Every now and then I hear Khalaa say, “Subhanallah!”
The baby keeps coming too close to the stove, two little gas burners on the ground. I’ve had lots of practice lighting them by now, but if that baby isn’t careful, his clothes could catch fire. I turn my back so I’m blocking him.
When the tea is ready I take the two cups and stand outside the door of their room. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but I can’t help it.
Agha Akram says, “Anybody could take advantage of her. She’s too innocent. She didn’t even know how much money I gave her. She’d be good for us. It wouldn’t be that much more. She could be company for Tahira. She’s a very good girl.”
Khalaa says, “I know she’s good, but it would be too hard. We’d have to send her to school. How can we afford it? It’s already so much.”
“We could manage. Each child brings their own baraka.” Khalaa says, “She’ll be better off there. You know that. I’m not saying we’ll never see her again. We can have her come to visit.”
“Fatima, is it shaitan that’s whispering in your ear? You know we should.”
I can hear Khalaa stand up suddenly. What if she’s coming to the door? She’ll see me standing here, and the tea’s getting cold. I knock then, and hear a quick movement inside.
Wanting Mor (Large Print 16pt) Page 6