Wanting Mor (Large Print 16pt)

by Rukhsana Khan

  The last thing I remember is the number six.

  13

  SOMEONE is calling me but I just want to sleep. I snuggle down into the blankets. There’s a light touch on my forehead. I brush it away.

  Someone says something in a strange language. Khalaa Gul answers. She’s standing at the side of my bed talking to a nurse. Then she turns toward me.

  “Ah, you’re finally awake! Come now, we need to go home. We’ve bothered these kind people long enough.”

  There’s something about these blankets. They’re warmer than usual. I hate to leave them. The nurse takes me by the arm and slowly lifts me up until I’m sitting. My mouth feels numb. I touch the side where it used to be open, but it’s covered in a bandage.

  Khalaa Gul says, “Leave the dressing alone. It has to heal now.”

  The same nurse takes my arm and helps me swing my legs over the side of the narrow bed. She says something that I think means slowly. I’m a little wobbly, like a newborn lamb.

  Khalaa Gul takes my arm and leads me back to the army truck. She makes a huge fuss over me in front of the army people. It makes me feel embarrassed. I climb into the vehicle slowly and sink down into the seat. It feels so good to sit down.

  We drive through Kabul on the way back to the orphanage. I wish I could see the Akrams’ shop. I wish Baba or Masood could see me riding like this.

  We’re back at the orphanage too soon. As soon as the army people are gone, Khalaa Gul seems to lose all interest in me. She calls a girl standing by the office to help me to my room. It takes a long time to walk down those hallways.

  When I get to my bed, I’m grateful to lie down. Luckily Soraya’s in class. I want nothing more than to sleep.

  I wake up when I hear noise in the corridor. What will Soraya say? She’ll be so angry I defied her.

  Little feet come running up first. Arwa jumps onto my bed and peeks at me through the blankets.

  “Can I see your lip?”

  I push her away a bit too roughly and she falls off the edge of the bed. I feel bad when she cries out but not bad enough to get up to help her.

  Soraya comes in and says, “What are you doing to the poor child?” She scoops up Arwa and makes a big fuss of comforting her. It’s an act. I know it. She must find her just as annoying as I do.

  Arwa’s eyes are closed and her face is pressed against Soraya’s chest. If she were a kitten, she would be purring.

  I want to turn my back to the door. Shut them all out of my view.

  Before I can turn over Soraya says, “Let me see the damage.”

  It’s an order. At least she’s talking to me. Zeba leans closer like she wants to see, too.

  I push down the blanket from my nose.

  “I’m not supposed to uncover it yet.”

  “Nonsense! Let me see.”

  So I sit up and show them my lip.

  Soraya touches the dressing and picks at the tape at the corners.

  “Don’t!” I say, but she keeps at it.

  Soraya manages to lift a corner of the tape. My lip isn’t as numb any more. The stickiness of the tape pulls at my skin as she lifts it. It feels as if it’s being snapped by a hundred rubber bands. The dressing is stuck fast. The blood must have soaked through and dried.

  Soraya tugs at it but I pull away.

  “No, don’t. You’ll make it bleed.”

  “Fine! Be like that.” She turns, calls Zeba to her side and walks out.

  The only one left is Arwa. She’s sucking her finger, staring at me. I make a face at her, and wince when it hurts. She takes the hint but just as she leaves, she glances at me over her shoulder. It’s a look of reproach and it stings more than my lip.

  How come I can put up with everyone in here but her? She’s just so dirty, but I know it’s not that. There are others much dirtier.

  I turn my back to the door and try to settle down to sleep, but I’m much too wide awake now.

  They’ve gone for lunch. This will be one time the tiny mirror in the bathroom won’t be crowded.

  There’s no one in the hallway. I’m glad my bare feet make no sound. I peek around the corner. The way is clear, down another hallway.

  Why am I being so sneaky? I’m just going to the bathroom.

  The mirror is small and high up. I have to stand on tiptoe to see the bottom of my cheek. With my tongue I can feel the stitches that run all the way through, inside the top of my lip. I lift the corner of tape that Soraya was working on but the dressing really is stuck.

  I might as well go back to bed. But my stomach is grumbly. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Maybe I should go to lunch, too. I feel pretty good. They didn’t say I couldn’t eat afterward. I’ll just make sure I chew on the other side, away from the stitches.

  When I enter the lunch room, all the girls look up from their yogurt and naan. Most of them smile when they see me. There’s a kind of cheer that goes around the room.

  Khalaa Kareema says, “Jameela! I was just going to check on you. How are you feeling? Come, sit here. Girls, make room.”

  Soraya’s way on the other side with Zeba and Arwa. That’s my usual spot but somehow I don’t feel like picking my way over there. I’m tired from all the walking. It’s nice to settle down right here.

  Khalaa Kareema goes into the kitchen and brings out another bowl with some naan.

  “I saved this for you. Can you eat? Would you like me to break the naan into pieces and soak it in the yogurt so it’s soft?”

  I smile, then wince with the pain it causes. My lip is definitely not numb any more.

  “It’s all right. I’ll do it.”

  I break up the naan and drop it into the yogurt. Fyma, a girl next to me, says, “How was the operation? Were you scared?”

  “A little.”

  Another girl beside her says, “Did the soldiers point their guns at you?”

  I frown. “No.”

  “What kind of knife did they use?”

  “I didn’t see the knife.”

  Khalaa Kareema hands me a spoon and I stir the yogurt to soften up the naan.

  Another girl says, “I would be terrified!”

  “I was a little scared. I heard things,” I say, and I can’t help glancing in Soraya’s direction. “But it was okay. There was a nurse. She was nice.”

  They lean closer while I tell them about the operation. Girls in the next row are turning around to listen. Soon there’s a crowd around me. It feels so strange to be the center of attention.

  I see Soraya glance at me a few times. Her face is neutral. Zeba scowls at me.

  Arwa joins the group gathered around. Her nose is running all the way down to the edge of her lip and there’s a bit of yellow crust around the edges.

  She asks, “Did it hurt?”

  Ugh! I’m losing my appetite, so I turn away and don’t answer, but Fyma says, “Yeah, did it?”

  “It didn’t hurt right then, but it’s hurting now.”

  I stir the yogurt again. The naan is nice and mushy. I can’t answer all these questions and eat at the same time.

  Finally Khalaa Kareema comes to my rescue and tells the girls to leave me alone.

  They look so disappointed. I had no idea they were this friendly.

  With my belly full I just want to go back to sleep, but it’s Zuhr time. I make wudu carefully, trying not to get the bandage wet. Fyma and her friend Raisa splash some water on themselves, but they don’t wash their hands and face and arms and feet three times. Why can’t they make wudu properly?

  Only some of the girls make the effort.

  They all fuss over me. Fyma shoves some of the girls out of the way and ends up at my side.

  By the time we get to the prayer room, I’m drained. I don’t have the strength to stand up, so I sit in the corner with my back to the wall and pray sitting down.

  Praying while sitting takes much less time, so I finish my sunnah before the others and have time to watch them. It amazes me how many girls sit on the sides and tur
n to each other to whisper and gossip. It makes me wonder what they say about me.

  Soraya sees me sitting and says something to Zeba, who nods. Maybe they think I’m being lazy sitting instead of standing to pray.

  Raheema, one of the bigger rather homely girls, comes in from making wudu. The edges of her sleeves and her face are wet. And as she walks by I see that the back of her dress is caught in the drawstring of her pants. Her whole backside is exposed. Worst of all, her pants are wedged into the crack of her bottom.

  Fyma points at her and doesn’t even try to muffle her laughter. She nudges her friend Raisa so she can see and laugh, too.

  Poor Raheema. She has no idea why they’re laughing. She just looks at the girls and smiles, trying to get in on the joke.

  I wish I was closer. I’d yank her dress out so it would cover her shame.

  Soraya looks up from her dhikr to see what all the girls are laughing at. When Raheema passes by, her eyes widen, but she doesn’t laugh.

  By this time Raheema is smiling and laughing along with everyone else. Soraya gets up, steps over a couple of little kids, grabs Raheema by the shoulder and yanks out her dress where it’s trapped so it falls properly. A look of realization comes over Raheema’s homely face. The other girls roar with laughter.

  Beside me Fyma’s laughing so hard she’s wiping tears from her eyes. Raisa’s laughing, Zeba’s laughing. Even Arwa is laughing, but Soraya nudges her, says something and she stops.

  The only ones who don’t laugh are Soraya and myself.

  The iqama is called. Time for prayer to start. Poor Raheema. She looks so embarrassed and nobody’s letting her into line. Soraya calls her forward and lets her stand between her and Zeba.

  Fyma makes a nasty face at Soraya’s back, and Raisa rolls her eyes. Fyma turns to me and says, “That stupid Soraya. She’s always spoiling our fun.”

  After the prayer, Khalaa Kareema says I must go right back to my room and lie down. Some of the girls argue about who gets to take me, and Fyma manages to get the honor.

  Up and down the corridors, she doesn’t walk too fast and even offers her arm for me to lean on. I say, “Tashakur but I wouldn’t want to burden you.” It feels unwise to lean on her. Maybe she’ll complain to the others about how heavy I am.

  When we get to the room Fyma tucks the blankets in around my back so I’ll be warmer.

  She says, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  I feel bad. “I’m sorry, but no.”

  Fyma smiles. “You helped me out. I was supposed to mop the kitchen but you did it for me, for three nights. I was sick. You don’t remember?”

  I shake my head. “Sorry.”

  She nods. “Well, there were a lot of girls you helped out.”

  I guess there were.

  14

  THE BANDAGES came off today. I’m surprised at how fast my lip has healed. There’s only a thin red line to show where the surgeon joined the two sides together.

  It’s so strange to see my face whole. I can’t help angling my head this way and that to check out my new look in the mirror.

  Fyma gives me a nudge.

  “Hurry up, Jameela. Let us have a turn.”

  Oh, dear. Am I turning into one of those silly girls? I vow not to spend so much time in front of the mirror, but I can’t help sneaking a look even as I’m turning away. Just a quick little glance, like getting acquainted with a stranger.

  I like what I see.

  I’m fingering my porani. I should cover up my face, but for the first time I really don’t want to. Is it so bad to want others to see my new face? Is it like bragging?

  Wasn’t I always looking down at them for showing off? Didn’t I tell Masood that I would wear the porani even if I was beautiful? Especially if I was?

  But they’re all girls. I don’t even need to wear it all the time. I only do so because the soldiers come in so unexpectedly.

  I won’t. I’ll just leave it around my shoulders like everyone else.

  It feels so strange not to have it on my head. I feel so naked.

  Fyma finishes making her wudu and she comes up alongside me.

  “We’d better hurry. The iqama’s going to go soon.”

  We rush into the prayer hall. Soraya’s way up ahead with Zeba. I put on my porani properly and start praying my sunnah. Before I even finish, the imam stands up to start the fard. I rush through the words to finish my prayer, but still they’ve gone down for the first ruku before I can join the jamat. I’ll have to make up that rakat at the end of the prayer, after everyone’s already finished.

  I hate rushing like this. Oh, why did I dawdle in front of the mirror? I’ve never been so late for my prayer. Asthaghfirullah.

  When I finally finish, it feels so normal to just leave the porani on my head. That’s what I’ve always done. But now it’s different. So I reach up and put it around my shoulders again.

  My hair’s a bit messy from the porani. I guess I’ll have to make sure I keep it properly combed.

  Fyma says, “You look so nice now! Better than Soraya.” My face feels hot. I don’t know what to say.

  I should go. Khalaa Kareema is waiting for me, but for the first time I don’t feel like helping out in her class. I’d rather be with girls my own age. Luckily Arwa hasn’t gone yet. She’s skulking around the corners of the prayer hall, dawdling as usual.

  I call her over. She runs up quickly.

  “Tell Khalaa Kareema I won’t be coming today. I’m going to go to the big girls’ class now.”

  She’s got her finger in her mouth. Such a dirty habit. But then she’s such a dirty little girl.

  Didn’t she hear me? Why is she still standing there?

  “Go on, Arwa! Tell her!”

  Fyma glances at me quickly. I guess I didn’t have to be that loud.

  Arwa’s face looks like a crushed-up tissue. She turns slowly and heads down to her class.

  Never mind. She’ll get over it.

  It feels so strange coming into this big class. Girls give me looks and move over a bit to make room. Soraya glances at me but doesn’t smile. Zeba scowls. The teacher, Khalaa Rasheeda, looks tired. The girls look bored.

  Khalaa Rasheeda says, “Settle down, girls. Jameela, please hurry up and find a spot. I’d like to continue.”

  She’s teaching them about the water cycle. Khalaa Kareema taught me that a while ago. The girls are restless. They’re whispering. One girl is leaning against the wall, sleeping. Maybe if we had desks and weren’t so crammed together on the floor, things would be better. Soraya doesn’t even hide that she’s chatting with Zeba.

  Fyma leans over and says, “Look at Soraya! She thinks the sun wouldn’t set without her permission.”

  I don’t say anything.

  Fyma tries again, “Most of the class hates her, you know. She’s so bossy.”

  I nod. Soraya definitely is bossy.

  Raisa is listening in on our conversation.

  She says, “Oh, yes. I’m glad you’re challenging Soraya. She’s been a real pain in the neck.”

  I’m challenging Soraya?

  Khalaa Rasheeda erases the board and says, “Now, who can tell me what I just showed you? When the rain falls what happens?”

  Raisa calls out, “We get wet.”

  The other girls laugh. Khalaa Rasheeda frowns.

  “None of that. I want you to raise your hands and answer politely.”

  This time Raisa raises her hand. Hers is the only hand up so Khalaa Rasheeda has to call on her.

  “Do you know what happens when the rain falls, Raisa?”

  “We get wet.”

  All the girls laugh again. Khalaa Rasheeda looks so annoyed.

  I put up my hand.

  “Yes, Jameela?”

  “The water is absorbed by the land, runs off into streams and then goes back up into the air.”

  Khalaa Rasheeda looks relieved. Fyma, Raisa and some of the other girls send me disappointed looks.

  When it’s o
ver, Fyma and Raisa get up together and leave me behind. The other girls are not jostling to be near me any more.

  Somebody nudges past me. It’s Zeba. She’s walking quickly beside Soraya through the crowd of girls. Most see them coming and move out of the way.

  I find myself heading down a familiar corridor. Khalaa Kareema is just leaving the classroom.

  When she sees me she says, “I missed your help.”

  Without thinking I say, “I missed helping you.”

  She’s watching me so intently it makes me squirm, and I realize that my porani is still down around my shoulders.

  Instinctively I lift it back up to cover, but then drop it again. I won’t cover just to please Khalaa Kareema.

  “Will you be coming by tomorrow?” she asks.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  For the rest of the day most of the girls don’t bother with me at all. I’m kind of glad.

  At night I crawl into my bed and turn my back to them. And for the first time since she died, I dream of Mor.

  She’s sitting straight and tall, kind of stiff, wearing very white Punjabi clothes and a porani. Her face is not covered, and she looks young and healthy.

  The happiness at just seeing her is overwhelming.

  I call, “Mor! Mor!”

  She doesn’t turn to look. I run around so I’m in her line of sight.

  “Mor!”

  She turns her head away. And I see then that I’m not wearing anything at all.

  People are walking by, not even noticing that I’m standing there without anything on. I want to hide, but I can’t leave her.

  She won’t look at me. She’s staring at something in the distance. I keep calling her, getting more and more desperate.

  I stamp my feet like a little girl. I stamp and cry and shout and scream, and she won’t look at me. She keeps staring off at something else. Like she’s made of stone.

  I can feel the dream slipping away and I don’t want it to. I’m grabbing at it but it’s turning to shreds, wisps of smoke that disappear into the air.

  There’s nothing but blackness behind my eyes, and when I open them, there’s the familiar grayness of dawn. Fajr time.