Wanting Mor (Large Print 16pt)

by Rukhsana Khan

  “Come in,” calls Khalaa.

  “Here’s the tea. I hope it’s the way you like.”

  Khalaa smiles. “Tashakur, Jameela.”

  I nod and leave the room, closing the door behind me so I won’t be tempted to eavesdrop. Mor always hated that kind of thing.

  I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest, my porani wrapped around me. I can hardly breathe. I’m hoping so hard that Agha Akram will win the argument. Please, Allah, please, let them keep me. I’ll never ask for another thing again.

  Why wouldn’t he win the argument? He’s the man. He’s the head of the house. It’s his decision.

  And yet. I’m afraid to hope.

  I’ll know by the way they come out of the room. If Agha is standing tall, then it will be yes. If Khalaa is smiling, then she’ll have won.

  The wait is unbearable. How much longer? I’m gnawing on my knuckles. Oh, please, Allah. I want this more than anything.

  The corner of my porani is damp and frayed. I’ve chewed it so much my teeth ache.

  Finally the door opens. It’s Agha who is looking down at the floor. Khalaa’s face is set and determined.

  She won.

  10

  I’MN OT an orphan. I don’t belong in an orphanage.

  Agha Akram is talking to the khalaa in charge, telling her all about me. She’s wearing a very thin porani, the kind Masood’s mother wore. I wonder why these women even bother. They aren’t covered. Their hair shows clearly through those flimsy things.

  This new khalaa keeps glancing over at me and nodding. Then she walks over with a fake smile on her face.

  “Welcome. Come, we’ll find a place for you.”

  I have to go with her. Agha is looking at the floor, twisting his hands.

  I take a deep breath and say, “Assalaamu alaikum, Agha. Tashakur for all you’ve done for me.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “I wish I could have done more.” There’s an awkward silence. I think we’re both thinking of his wife. When the khalaa is busy he reaches into his pocket and presses another bill into my hands. Another five hundred Afghanis.

  “You’ll be better off here,” he says. “You’ll see.”

  I nod, even though I don’t want to see.

  “Come with me,” says the khalaa. “We’ll get you settled.”

  We walk down long halls with doors opening out to little rooms. I’ve never seen such beds. They’re stacked, a bed on the bottom and another bed on top.

  Where are the children? The real orphans.

  The place is so big. I should pay attention to where we’re going but somehow I can’t. I don’t care. I’d like to just crawl into one of those beds and fall asleep forever.

  We go to a different section. In the last room at the end of a long hallway there’s only one set of stacked beds. In the corner there’s a whole bunch of junk. Rags and poles and things I can’t recognize. And there are strange holes in the walls.

  There are piles of sheets on the bottom bed. Khalaa puts them on the floor with the other things.

  “You can have this bed. This really isn’t supposed to be a bedroom, but it will have to do. You’ll be sharing the room with one other girl. Her name is Soraya. She’s in class right now but will be coming back soon.” She glances at her watch. “They’ll all be here soon. If you need anything just ask for me. You can call me Khalaa Gul.”

  This room is about as small as Tahira’s. The stacked beds take up most of the space.

  I lie down on the bottom bed. It feels so strange. What’s underneath it on the floor? A bit of dust and dirt, but otherwise it’s fairly clean. I grab one of the rags from the pile in the corner and wipe it out. There’s more than enough room.

  It feels nice to be tucked in here under the bed. It feels safe. Like a little cave. I like the way the steel mesh under the mattress above me looks. Little tufts of mattress bulge through the holes in the metal spring. I push at them with my finger but they pop right back out.

  I must have fallen asleep because my eyes open all of a sudden when I hear footsteps slapping their way down the hall. Someone stops at the door, takes a running jump and lands on the bed above me. The wire mesh screeches, and the mattress bounces down so low it almost touches me.

  I hug my bundle of clothes and hold my breath.

  “She’s not here yet!” the girl above me yells. “Come on in.”

  I see the bare feet of two other girls enter the room and they pile on top of my new bed.

  “So what was all the screaming about?” one of the girls says.

  The first girl says, “Khalaa Gul kicked those ladies out.”

  A small voice says, “But they were so nice. I like the doll they gave me.”

  Someone snorts.

  Another voice says, “One of those ladies tucked me in one night. She took my blankets and put them all around me till I could hardly move. She made me repeat some words after her and then she put that doll in beside me. In the middle of the night it was poking me in the back so I threw it across the room.”

  “You know what those words were? The ones she was making you say?”

  “What?”

  One of their prayers. And those things they nailed into the walls were crosses. You know the little man on them? That was supposed to be Jesus.”

  Another voice says, “Alaihi salam.”

  “Yeah, Jesus, alaihi salam. They pray to those things.”

  The small voice says, “But why?”

  “Never mind. They just do. Khalaa Gul found out what they were teaching us and she kicked them out. You should have heard her yell at them.”

  “But they were going to give us some shoes.”

  “You’re going to sell your soul for some shoes?”

  The others are quiet.

  I’m scared to breathe. What if they find out I’ve been lying here on the floor listening the whole time?

  Why didn’t I lie on the bed? Now whatever I do I’ll look so stupid. Maybe I should make a noise so they know I’m here.

  Just then there’s the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. One of the girls says, “It sounds like her.”

  Two of the girls jump up and run to their own rooms. The one remaining gets off my bed and tidies the blankets.

  It’s Khalaa Gul. I can tell by her high-heeled shoes.

  She says, “Soraya, where’s the new girl? I left her right here.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone.”

  I close my eyes and pretend to be sleeping. Khalaa Gul bends down and checks under the bed.

  “There you are!”

  Slowly I open my eyes and stretch. The stretch isn’t all acting. She takes my hand and pulls me out.

  “Soraya, this is Jameela. I want you to show her around and make her feel welcome. She’s had it hard.”

  Soraya is a lot older than me, and she looks annoyed. I haven’t begun things in a good way.

  Khalaa Gul says, “Show her where the bathroom is and you girls wash up. It will be lunch time soon.” Then she leaves.

  Soraya says, “Why didn’t you tell us you were under there?”

  For a moment I’m tempted to lie and say I was sleeping.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. You just came in so suddenly. I really was sleeping.”

  I think it’s the right thing to say. She nods, then looks at me more closely.

  “Why are you wearing your chador like that in here? We’re all girls, you know.”

  I take a deep breath and lower it so she can see my whole face. While I explain how I was born with my lip like this, I wonder if she’ll make fun of me. Soraya nods as I’m telling her, and then she says something that surprises me. I thought she was the really tough kind of girl.

  “Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t look that bad. I’ve seen worse.” She turns and calls, “Zeba! Come here.”

  Zeba is about my age, with greenish brown eyes. Another girl comes with her. I recognize her feet. She must belong to the small voice. She
’s holding a scruffy little doll. She’s tiny, with a small pinched dirty face and a runny nose. Her dress has stains on it, and her feet are grubby.

  What is she doing with these bigger girls?

  Zeba says, “Nobody asked you to come, Arwa. Why don’t you play with girls your own age?”

  Arwa shrugs. “They don’t like me.”

  I’m not surprised. It’s probably because she’s so dirty. Soraya nods her head toward me. “Seems as though we had a mouse listening.”

  Arwa holds her doll closer. “Mouse? Where?!”

  Zeba gives her a shove.

  “She’s talking about her.” She nods at me, too.

  “Oh.”

  Soraya says, “This is Jamillah.”

  “No. Jameela.” I emphasize the Arabic pronunciation.

  Zeba laughs. “Who named you that?”

  “My mother.”

  Zeba is still smirking. “Doesn’t it mean pretty?”

  I nod.

  Zeba says, “Must have been a joke.”

  This time Soraya looks annoyed.

  “Stop it, Zeba.” To me she says, “Come, I’ll show you the bathroom. It’s broken, so most of us just go outside.”

  We head down the hall and quickly pass by the stinky washroom. Soraya introduces me to hundreds of girls. There’s something about the way she says, “This is Jameela, she’s new here,” that puts all those girls on guard. They glance at my lip, and then they glance at Soraya, and then they just say, “Assalaamu alaikum,” without making fun of me at all.

  It’s amazing. She knows all their names. Some treat her with respect. Others look afraid and a few look hateful. She must be the top of them all.

  Zeba tags along. So does Arwa. Zeba seems to be in a bad mood. Arwa tries to hold her hand several times but she gives her a shove.

  Anyone else would take the hint, but Arwa’s the dumb kind of kid who keeps trying.

  Now we’re standing outside the meal area waiting. I feel something tickling my hand and look down to see Arwa trying to hold it. She looks up at me with big eyes like she’s trying to be cute. I hate it when kids do that.

  I know I should be kind, but she’s so dirty, I just want to get away from her. Besides, it’s a cruel world. She’ll have to face that sooner or later.

  So I pull my hand away.

  Soraya says, “Make sure you’re always at the head of the line. The first ones get the best pick.”

  I nod. “What will we be having?”

  “Lunch is always the same. Yogurt and naan.”

  We all file in. The room is swept and clean. There are dusterkhans laid out neatly on the floor. Soraya scans the bowls and naan and quickly finds a few that have a bit more. She gestures to the three of us to come.

  When the girls start eating, it gets very quiet. No one talks. Every girl is completely absorbed in lifting each bite to her mouth. There are the sounds of chewing, and the little smack of fingers being licked clean, but no words.

  Zeba has finished her yogurt and still has a piece of naan. She reaches over and dips it in Arwa’s bowl. Arwa looks up, frowns, but doesn’t say anything. What can she say?

  Zeba smiles at me like it’s all just a big joke. Arwa’s just a little kid. She’s not important. I don’t even like her. It would be better to be on good terms with Zeba. I should smile back, but I can’t. I look away. I can feel Zeba’s eyes on me, but I don’t care.

  Later, Soraya comes to our room.

  “They’re going to put you in Arwa’s class.”

  Class? School? Like Tahira and Farzana? I’m so excited, but then I check myself. Soraya makes it sound like I should be mad that I’ll be in the little kids’ class, but I’m not.

  I have to wait until morning. How will I ever sleep?

  Soraya steps on my mattress and hops up onto the bed above.

  “It won’t be that bad. Catch up soon so you can join our class.”

  I have to sleep on the bed or Soraya will think I’m strange. I huddle up to the wall. It’s really quite comfortable as long as my back is covered.

  Another strange place with new sounds that I need to get used to, and now I have time to think.

  I wonder what Baba’s doing. What did Masood say when he found out I was gone? How would they explain it to the relatives and neighbors?

  How could Baba do this to me?

  No.

  Do not get angry. Do not get angry. Do not get angry.

  Mor would be happy I’m going to school. Even if it is in Arwa’s class. I’m so excited! I can’t wait.

  11

  I’MO N a busy street, the same street with Agha Akram’s shop. I see him standing at the front in a clean apron, his arms crossed. I wave but he doesn’t recognize me.

  Men and women flow past me. I can barely see their faces. They don’t look at me but their elbows and shoulders jostle me. They are all traveling the wrong way and somehow I must get through. There’s something ahead I must see, and yet I’m not sure what it is.

  Through the crowd, I catch a glimpse of the back of Baba’s head. I’m trying to get close to see if it’s really him but he’s walking quickly. It’s hard to get through.

  Then Baba turns to say something to someone beside him.

  It’s her!

  Such a rage boils up inside me. I push my way out to the edge of the crowd, see a good clod of cow dung lying on the ground and pick it up.

  It’s easier to make my way along the edges of the crowd. I’m right alongside them. I want them to see me. To know it’s me. So I call them.

  They turn in slow motion and with all my might, I hurl it at her. But he steps in the way.

  It shatters all over Baba’s face. Dung clings to his hair, his nose, his clothes. And she’s standing beside him as clean as ever.

  It was supposed to hit her.

  I can’t stand. I fall in a heap, stepped over and stepped on by the crowd. Don’t they feel me beneath their feet? Don’t they know I’m here?

  I wipe my eyes and they really are wet. I’m all curled up but it’s not the street, it’s my bed.

  Even in my dream he chose her.

  Mor was wrong. Being good isn’t enough. You have to be beautiful or at least rich.

  And despite the Prophet’s advice (peace be upon him), I am angry. So angry I’m trembling.

  The tears flow, and for once I can’t stop them. They’re so hot they could burn me. They make my pillow damp. Some even trickle into my ear.

  I try to muffle my sobs. I don’t want to wake Soraya. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to forget.

  And when my eyes are all puffy and swollen and I just can’t cry any more, what has changed? What have I solved? Nothing. Anger is for people who can do something about it.

  When I stop sobbing, my heart is calm. And when I open my puffy eyes I can see that the light has changed. Dawn is on its way.

  Fajr time. I’m ready to pray.

  The water is cold and refreshing on my hot face. During prayer I turn all my problems over to Allah. He has all the power. It’s up to Him to take care of me.

  Afterwards I go back and lie on my bed. I turn my pillow over so the damp side is away from me. I don’t think I’ll sleep, but before I know it, Soraya’s calling me for breakfast. It’s yogurt and naan again.

  Afterwards we head off to our classrooms.

  I’m so lucky. They give me a small piece of a pencil and a bit of paper. The paper’s a little crumpled but one side is still clear. The rest of the kids in Arwa’s class have nothing to write on.

  I’m the biggest girl in the room.

  Arwa sidles up to me so her bony knee is touching mine. She stinks so I move away. She slides closer again. I stare at her in such a way that it crushes the smile on her face and makes her look down.

  I know it’s mean but I can’t help it. If only she wasn’t so dirty. I can’t stand filthy kids.

  The teacher’s name is Khalaa Kareema. She walks in smoothly wearing what these girls in Kabul call
a chadri or burka. It’s a long cloak that’s tight at the head but flows out over your clothes, with mesh over the eyes.

  Underneath she’s holding books to her chest. She sets them down and then in front of us all, she takes off the chadri, folds it neatly and sets it aside. Her hair is braided at the back, her eyes are lined with kohl, slightly slanted. She sits down gracefully, settling her Punjabi clothes around her in a pretty manner.

  Two of the girls are fighting. She just watches them for a moment. Something makes me get up to try to pry them apart. One of them has a fistful of the other’s hair and is pulling like she’s enjoying it. I give that one a pinch. It’s enough to make her let go.

  Khalaa Kareema asks me to set the girls on opposite sides of the room. She has a chalkboard behind her that looks like it was once black but is now a dusty gray.

  She starts with the alphabet. I already know some of the letters. I recognize jeem right away. She asks us to repeat after her. My voice is the loudest.

  She shows us the vowel marks and how they change the sounds the letters make. It’s like a secret code. It’s so fascinating. I think I can get it. There’s a letter for almost every sound you can make. And it’s just a matter of stringing together the right letters and the right vowel marks to say whatever you want them to say. She’s teaching us Farsi, but it wouldn’t be hard to use the same letters to write what I want in Pushto.

  At lunch time I seek out Soraya. I’m so excited. I have to share what I’ve learned with someone! Arwa’s too little and Zeba wouldn’t care.

  But when I tell Soraya about it she snorts, “What are you talking about?”

  “Learning to read!”

  Soraya snorts again. “It doesn’t make you a better person. If you’re mean before you’ll still be mean after. I know plenty of idiots who can read.”

  I make myself nod and keep my mouth shut. She finds the best bowls and naan and the four of us sit down. How can she not see what it means to me?

  Arwa is trying to eat her food as fast as she can. There are drips of yogurt falling from her chin. Disgusting.

  “Slow down.” I tell her.