Wanting Mor (Large Print 16pt)

by Rukhsana Khan

  I uncurl my legs. The floor is ice. Soraya’s still sleeping, but I think she’d want me to wake her up, so I give her a nudge.

  She turns and looks at me.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “It’s time for Fajr.”

  She sits up, rubs the grit in the corner of her eyes.

  “Oh, all right. Tashakur.”

  I pad down the hall and make wudu. A few other girls are doing the same. I don’t see Fyma or Raisa anywhere. Zeba’s not there either.

  There’s something about the familiar washing of wudu that makes me feel better. More normal. I tie up my porani the way Mor taught me, and I enter the prayer hall. At this time of the day it’s quiet and peaceful. Only the girls who are strong in their faith bother to get up.

  Soraya comes in. She’s looking around and then ends up picking a spot right next to me to pray her sunnah.

  There’s a Quran with tafseer in Pushto in the corner. I don’t have to hide any more so I pick it up and start reading some verses.

  When she’s finished her sunnah Soraya sits so close to me that her knee touches mine. It feels good.

  And when the iqama begins we stand side by side, girls in a line.

  15

  THERE HAS been a new crop of arrivals at the orphanage. Some of the girls have families so poor they left them here, but at least they come to visit now and again. And then there are the true orphans like Soraya, Zeba and Arwa. The only one who’s been totally abandoned is me, and they all know it.

  I can see it in their eyes when they pass me in the hallway, and I can see it in the way they pause in their whispering when I come into the prayer hall. Girls in groups of two, with their heads bent toward each other, looking right at me, talking out of the sides of their mouths.

  Saying how could her father do such a thing? It’s unnatural. What’s wrong with her that he would do such a thing? What did she do to deserve it?

  They’ll stop after a while if I just leave them alone. If I pretend it doesn’t bother me and keep my head high, they’ll eventually stop.

  The scar on my lip has faded. I look almost perfect. I wish Baba could see me this way. Would he change his mind and want me back?

  The soldiers fixed the heat and windows in time for spring, but now the fighting in the hills has intensified. The Americans are fighting another war, too, and the Taliban have arisen from the dead. So the soldiers don’t have time to help us any more.

  With them gone, Khalaa Gul is in a foul mood. I guess there’s no one to flirt with. She snaps at everyone who gets in her way, and then one day she brings a new foreigner to take a look at us.

  I’m mopping the floor of the kitchen and this lady walks in with her high heels, speaking that strange language.

  She is a visitor from America. White and tiny and pretty, she has rosy cheeks and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Her lips are painted pink and for some reason she’s wearing a porani on her head, much like Khalaa Gul, where her hair shows through all over the place. Why do they bother?

  While they look at me on my hands and knees with a dirty wet rag in my hands, Khalaa Gul says something to the lady. I catch their word for father. She’s telling her about Baba. The lady nods. Then Khalaa Gul steps up and grabs my chin, lifting it up so she can see the scar.

  I’m used to this by now. I guess it’s the price of having it fixed.

  A look of pity crosses the pretty lady’s face. I think I can even see some tears in her eyes. After they leave and I’ve finally finished all my chores, I go back to my room and curl up in a corner with my porani wrapped around me, like I used to do.

  Soraya comes in and walks right by me without seeing me at first. I must look like a bundle of laundry.

  Then she comes back, takes a closer look at me and says, “Jameela?”

  I’ve been peeking at her through my porani, but now I raise my head.

  She bends her head closer.

  “Are you all right?”

  I wish there was some kind of surgery to mend me inside. There’s a hole in me much bigger than the gap in my lip. But I can’t tell Soraya that.

  “What’s wrong?” she says.

  “I was just thinking of my father.”

  She sits down on my bed, her hands going limp in her lap.

  “Forget about him.”

  “Do you think it was my lip that made him leave me?” “Stop it,” she says. “There’s nothing you could have done. And you’re not the only one to be left by your father.” She looks down for a moment. “Men will leave their kids even when there’s nothing wrong with them. And then sometimes, before they can come back to get them, they die.” She sighs. “What do you think of this new donor lady?”

  I shrug. “She seems all right.”

  “They all do when they first arrive.”

  “What about the soldiers? They didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Soraya scowls. “They’re invaders. They want to control us. They won’t be happy until they change us so we’re just like them.”

  “They fixed things. You should be grateful.”

  Soraya stands up and paces around our small room.

  “I’m tired of being grateful.”

  I know what she means. I should be happy, and I am, but part of me still feels... I don’t know. Empty?

  I shouldn’t feel this way. Isn’t my life better? Subhanallah, I never thought I’d even be able to read. But there’s still this hollow part of me that only family could fill.

  Soraya walks back and forth in our small room, her hands on her waist, pulling the fabric of her dress tight. Her body has really developed in places. She paces a few more times. It feels like she’s about to say something important so I wait quietly.

  Finally she mutters, “I want a place of my own. Maybe I can get married.”

  She’s never told me anything about herself.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “None of your business!”

  I yell right back at her. “Then why are you bringing it up?”

  I smile. Soraya grins at me. “Come. I can use some help in the kitchen.”

  I get to my feet and we pad down the hallway. When we arrive in the kitchen, Khalaa Gul and that new visitor are still there.

  Khalaa Gul sees Soraya and says in a sickly sweet voice, “There you are, Soraya, my dear. Could you do the biggest favor and make us a cup of tea?”

  Soraya glances from Khalaa Gul to the visitor and nods. When she turns her back to them she looks at me and rolls her eyes.

  Blue flames lick the black claw-like things on top of the stove where Soraya’s boiling the tea.

  When the disbelievers threw Prophet Abraham (peace be upon him) into the fire, he put his faith in God, saying, Hasbiyallahu wa ni’mal wakeel. God is enough for me and He is the best disposer of affairs. And God made the fire cool so it wouldn’t burn him.

  And when the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) was betrayed by the hypocrites and the enemy gathered against them in huge numbers, the believers said Hasbiyallahu wa ni’mal wakeel.

  Soraya takes the tea into Khalaa Gul and that new lady. Then she comes back and pours a cup for each of us. It’s hot and milky and sweet, just the way I like it.

  I smile at my friend and carefully take the first sip.

  Hasbiyallahu wa ni’mal wakeel.

  16

  I THINK Khalaa Gul finally trusts us. Sometimes she sends Soraya and me to the marketplace to get things for the cook.

  Khalaa Kareema gave me a gift of a new chadri. It’s the light blue cotton kind with the mesh screen across the eyes. It leaves my hands free to carry things underneath.

  I could dress like Soraya, just with loose clothes and a porani tied properly to cover my hair. Nothing wrong with that, but this is the way the wives of the Prophet (peace be upon him) dressed. And this is the way Mor would have dressed.

  They were so strong. They were able to control their vanity. I want to be like them. And it’s a lot easier than constan
tly holding my porani across my face like I did before.

  When we go out I feel so mysterious. Men nod at me and step out of my way. There’s nothing for them to see. Even those men with a disease in their hearts can’t imagine disgusting things about me.

  I thought I’d never get a feel for the streets of Kabul, but after a while, corners look familiar. Soraya is good at navigating. With her along, I don’t have to worry about getting lost.

  Today we take a different route, making our way onto a street that looks familiar to me.

  I know where we are!

  “We have to go to this man’s shop!”

  “Why?”

  “This was the man who found me and brought me to the orphanage.”

  I see the place where I sat for all those hours. It’s empty. Just some stains on the wall where someone threw their tea. There’s the greasy mechanic shop. The place looks even smaller than I remember.

  Agha Akram’s shop is dark when we arrive. There’s a new sticky strip with only a few fly carcasses stuck to it, hanging from the ceiling.

  Soraya steps up looking at the meat hanging on hooks.

  “We need to buy some bones. We might as well get them here.”

  I barely hear her. I’m listening for him.

  Finally the back door opens and he walks in. He sees me and smiles, but he doesn’t recognize me. How could he? I’m all covered up. He thinks we’re just ordinary customers.

  He comes toward us, pointing at the cuts of meat.

  “What can I get you today?”

  “Agha Akram. Assalaamu alaikum. Don’t you remember me?”

  He peers at me closely and shakes his head.

  “I’m sorry, sister.”

  “It’s me, Jameela.”

  He looks puzzled for a moment, and then his face lights up.

  “Jameela! You were sitting outside my shop!”

  “That’s me and this is my friend Soraya, from the orphanage.”

  His face clouds over at the mention of the orphanage.

  “And how have you managed there?”

  “Subhanallah! Very well. I’m so glad you took me there!”

  “You are?”

  It is so wonderful to catch up! I ask about Tahira and the boys, and I ask about Khalaa without feeling the least bit of sadness. I still would have liked to stay with them, but I would have felt bad being a burden, and there’s no doubt I would have been a burden.

  Soraya looks bored. I’m sure this meeting isn’t as fascinating for her as it is for me.

  Finally I say, “Agha, it was so nice meeting you. Give my salams to Khalaa and Tahira.”

  But Agha Akram looks alarmed.

  “No, no. You two must be our guests tonight. Your khalaa would never forgive me if I didn’t bring you home to visit.”

  Soraya says, “It’s getting late, Agha. We promised to be back soon. We do need some bones for the cook. How much?”

  Agha Akram’s face brightens.

  “No, no. I won’t take your money. Here. I’ll get you some of the nicest bones.”

  He keeps insisting, so in the end we have no choice but to visit.

  Soraya whispers to me, “We’re going to be late. Khalaa Gul is going to have a fit.”

  I whisper back, “We won’t stay long.”

  I don’t remember it being such a short walk. Just a few side streets and we’re there. I do remember the staircase being this dim and narrow.

  When we arrive it’s such a scene of joy. The little boys are bigger, but Tahira’s the same. Khalaa is very gracious. She feeds us till we’re ready to burst. Leaving is hard.

  They say we must come back to visit and make us promise.

  Agha Akram says he’ll walk us. He brings along Tahira. I’m glad they’re coming. It’s past Maghrib time. It will be totally dark by the time we get back.

  The streets are still bustling, mostly men doing the shopping for their wives. It looks so different in the dark.

  Agha Akram leads us up one street and down another. After the third turn I wonder if he isn’t supposed to go left at this junction. Instead he goes right and he seems so sure of himself that I don’t correct him. Now we are in a completely unfamiliar part of town.

  There’s more damage here. Many of the houses have yet to be rebuilt from the years of war. There are fewer people on the streets.

  Soraya whispers, “This doesn’t look right.”

  Tahira says, “Baba, we’re lost.”

  “Nonsense. This is a short cut. When we get to the end of that street down there we’ll reach the main boulevard. You’ll see.”

  He sounds sure of himself so we continue along, but the street he’s talking about turns out to be a dead end.

  I say, “Maybe we should knock on one of the houses and ask if they know how to get back to the main street.”

  Agha Akram snorts. “It’s just a little farther. That was the wrong street. It’s the one up ahead.” But when we get to it, he turns to us looking confused. “I was sure it was this one.”

  I catch my breath. Something moves in the shadows, a little piece of blackness darker than the background.

  It’s a cat.

  The cat looks very familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen that torn ear and those green eyes.

  I start walking down another alley.

  Agha Akram says, “Where are you going?”

  “I think it’s down here.”

  Tahira says, “It’s so dark.”

  Soraya’s right beside me. “This can’t be the way.”

  But I’m sure it is.

  At the end of the alley there’s a large new door. But this is definitely the place. Before I can stop myself, I knock. Agha Akram looks surprised at my boldness.

  Masood opens the door. He looks different, less scruffy. It takes me a moment to realize it’s because he doesn’t have the crutches any more.

  “Come right in,” he says. “My mother will see you in a moment.” I examine his feet to see which one is artificial, but he’s wearing socks with his sandals and it’s hard to tell. But the way he walks, he seems to drag his right just a bit. I can’t remember which foot was gone.

  The courtyard has been cleared of bricks and rubble. They must have been working hard. It seems Baba has even started rebuilding with the undamaged bricks.

  Masood looks back to see if we’re following. He doesn’t recognize me. How could he? It’s such a feeling of power to be hidden away from view, to see him and know who he is while he has no clue. I do plan to tell him. Just not yet.

  Soraya whispers, “Khalaa Gul will be going crazy wondering where we are.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  Everything looks strange and smaller than I remember it. The furniture in the main room is more scratched and tattered, the walls dingier, the floors rough and uneven.

  Did I really spend so many months here? It didn’t look this shabby back then, but maybe that’s because she doesn’t have me to clean it any more.

  I can’t stop looking at Masood, and it seems he can’t stop looking at Soraya. When he swallows, the knob in his throat bobs up and down.

  “Please sit down,” he says. “My mother will be here in a moment.”

  Agha Akram looks even more confused. Soraya is looking around at the surroundings, glancing at me like she’s wondering what I’m up to. It’s hard to tell what Tahira thinks. She’s wrapped up like I am.

  My heart is racing. I take deep breaths to calm it down. I can hear that woman talking to Masood in the kitchen, something about rents and tenants.

  Agha Akram says, “They think we’re here to rent the place.”

  A new curtain of beads separates the kitchen from the main room. She pushes it aside with a tinkling kind of noise and comes in. Her porani is still hanging half off her head, draped across her chest, not hiding the fact that her dress is too tight, especially across her breasts. The lines at the corners of her mouth are more etched, like she’s been frowning a lot. Somehow that makes me happy
.

  She sees us and puts on a smile.

  “Welcome! We’ve been expecting you. I’m sorry to take so long to receive you. I let my servant go for the day.”

  She doesn’t have a servant.

  Agha Akram speaks up. “I’m terribly sorry but there seems to be some kind of mistake.”

  “No, no. No mistake! I’m sure you’ll find the room very comfortable for your,” she glances at me, “wife and daughters. We should have the building finished in a month’s time. Then you can move in.”

  Agha Akram tries to say something but she rides right over him.

  “I know my husband should be speaking to you about this.” She calls Masood. “Dear, go and get your father.” She smiles apologetically at us.

  Masood looks like he’s going to argue, but then he ducks back behind that curtain of beads. In the silence, the tinkling of the beads is very loud.

  Her face is red and there seems to be a film of sweat on her upper lip. She jumps up.

  “Would you like to see the room?”

  Agha Akram stands up.

  “I’m sorry, sister, but we’re not here to see any room. Myself and my daughter were just walking these young girls home when we got lost. We only wanted directions.”

  With narrowed eyes, she cocks her head and gets a sly look on her face.

  “Walking these girls home?”

  The way she says it makes me squirm. Agha Akram’s face grows red. Soraya looks like she’s going to slap her. Behind the mesh of Tahira’s chadri, her eyes are wide.

  Just then there’s a loud banging at the door and she jumps to her feet.

  To us she says, “Just wait here. I’ll deal with you later.”

  And she runs to the door.

  Agha Akram gets to his feet and says, “Come, let’s go.”

  I say, “Please, Agha. In a minute. I want to see my father.”

  Agha Akram and Soraya look shocked. Masood comes back in, without Baba. He glances at us, then walks through to his mother in the courtyard talking to the new people.

  It’s not hard to overhear him say, “He won’t get up.”

  She hisses, “Make him get up!” For a tiny moment I almost feel sorry for her. Then she goes back to the new people and in a loud voice says, “Well, brother, would you like to see the room now? I must warn you, there are other people here, too, so you need to make a decision soon.”