Wanting Mor (Large Print 16pt)

by Rukhsana Khan

  Agha Akram whispers to me, “Jameela, we really can’t stay much longer. We need to get home. Tahira has school tomorrow.”

  I’m being inconsiderate. We really should go. What difference will it make to see him?

  Masood comes back into the salon, looking shy.

  “My mother told me to help you.”

  Agha Akram stands up.

  “Yes, please, can you let us know the way to the main boulevard? That’s all we want. I need to take these girls back to the orphanage.”

  Masood hesitates, glancing at Soraya. She glances back at him and then looks down, her eyelashes sweeping against the curve of her cheeks. I think she’s doing it on purpose. Masood gulps again.

  “Let me show you the way.”

  He leaves his mother and guides us down several dark alleyways and corridors until finally we get to a gate that opens out on to the main street. Agha Akram is so relieved.

  “Tashakur very much, young man.”

  Masood keeps staring at Soraya. She looks so modest with the way her porani frames her face.

  He says, “So you stay at the orphanage?”

  Soraya nods.

  “It was nice meeting you.”

  Soraya nods again. I’ve never seen her so quiet.

  At the orphanage, Khalaa Gul is waiting. When she sees us her jaw falls open. She looks ready to yell, but then she sees Agha Akram and Tahira.

  Agha Akram says, “I’m so sorry, sister. I hope you remember me. I was the one who brought Jameela here. We met today and I insisted they come to dinner. This is my daughter. I’m so sorry to have kept them so late. We got lost on the way back.”

  Khalaa Gul puts on a smile. “Oh, please don’t worry about it, sir.” Then she puts an arm around each of our shoulders and says much too cheerfully, “All is well.”

  Agha Akram frowns, says salams and leaves. As soon as he turns the corner, Khalaa Gul screams at us for being so late.

  Soraya interrupts, “We’re sorry about that. We really did get lost. Agha Akram gave us the bones for free. Here’s the money back.”

  That makes her quiet. She counts the Afghanis in her hand, then she looks satisfied.

  “Very well. Take these down to the cook. She’ll have to use them tomorrow. It’s too late today. Don’t you ever try something like that again or I won’t send you out. I’ll go myself.”

  We both apologize again and are finally dismissed.

  Down the hall, past the boys’ section, I feel all jumbled up inside. How I wish I’d seen Baba! I can’t help it. To have been so close... It makes me ache inside.

  We burst into our room.

  “Did you see your stepmother’s dress?!” Soraya says. “I swear her breasts were going to pop right out! How can she wear things like that?”

  “It’s the fashion these days. I’ve seen worse!”

  “It’s all the foreigners. They’re trying to be just like them. It’s like that hadith. If the foreigners were to jump into a hole, they’d follow right behind them.”

  I can’t laugh about that. Soraya tries to catch my eye.

  “What’s wrong, Jameela?” “My father’s one of them.”

  She’s quiet for a moment. Finally she says, “Nothing you can do about that. It’s too bad you didn’t at least get to see him.”

  It hurts inside. I do miss him. And I wish he was like Agha Akram, there to take care of me. I wish I was Tahira.

  Tahira’s so lucky. No, not luck. There’s no such thing. It’s all qadr of Allah. She’s blessed. She doesn’t have a hole in her, a piece missing, like I do.

  Soraya gets up and fiddles with the blanket on her bed, smoothing it even though it’s already neat and tidy.

  Quietly she says, “So was that your stepbrother who let us in?”

  The longer I stare at her, the redder her face gets.

  Finally she throws her pillow at me.

  “Stop it!”

  I smile.

  That night, after we’ve prayed and got ready for bed, Soraya whispers into the darkness, “I thought you said your stepbrother was crippled.”

  “He must have got one of those artificial legs.” She’s silent for a while.

  Something makes me say, “He’s pretty good. You could do worse. But you would have to deal with her.”

  Soraya turns over on her bed, making the whole bunk shake.

  “Oh, I can handle her.” She adds, “Insha Allah.”

  17

  A WEEK hasn’t passed before Soraya comes bursting through the door of our classroom. She looks at me like she’s itching to say something.

  Holding the chalk pressed against the board, Khalaa Kareema frowns. All the students, including Arwa, turn to stare.

  Soraya pulls me over to the side.

  “She’s here!”

  “Who?”

  “Her! Your stepmother.” Soraya grabs my arm. Her hands are icy cold. “She wants to speak to me. What am I going to do?”

  Khalaa Kareema puts the chalk down and comes over to us.

  “What’s the problem here? Jameela, your students are waiting.”

  Soraya grips my arm. “Come with me. I can’t see her alone!”

  I tell Khalaa Kareema what’s happening.

  She nods and says, “Fine, then. Go with your friend.” Soraya fixes her porani and adjusts her dress so it’s as neat as possible.

  “Do I look all right?”

  I smile. “You look lovely.” Then I pull my chadri over my head so it settles around my feet. I grab her arm and together we head toward the orphanage office.

  Khalaa Gul is standing outside. She pulls me aside and says, “I want you to behave yourself. Don’t ruin Soraya’s chances. They look like a good family.”

  How could she even think I’d do such a thing?

  Khalaa Gul and Agha Abdul Hakeem from the boys’ side of the orphanage enter the room with us. They’ll act as guardians for Soraya.

  I have to admit, she is dressed quite modestly. Her dress isn’t cut low this time and her porani is wrapped properly around her head and drapes across her chest even if it is flimsy and see through.

  When she looks at Soraya, she smiles with her mouth but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

  She says, “I have come on behalf of my son. He is of marriageable age and he is looking for a wife.”

  It’s Soraya’s turn to respond. Elegantly she nods. She looks sweet. Like a pearl. I’m so proud of her.

  My stepmother continues, “We’re looking for a virtuous girl. One who isn’t afraid of hard work. Who will fit into the family well.”

  Khalaa Gul pats Soraya on the shoulder.

  “You couldn’t have picked a finer one. Soraya’s one of our best. I’ll vouch for that.”

  Soraya’s face turns pink at the praise, and she looks down at the floor. My stepmother nods.

  After that they talk about everyday stuff, even the weather. At the end of it, she stands up and says her salams and leaves.

  Khalaa Gul takes us aside.

  “I’ll do some checking on them, but it seems to me that everything will be fine.” Then she dismisses us.

  Soraya’s spirits are soaring.

  “I think that went well.” She goes on and on about the short conversation, analyzing everything my stepmother said and everything she replied until I want to shut my ears.

  “Which of his legs was artificial?” she says. “I can’t remember. You know she’s going to work you hard.”

  Soraya nods. “I know, but then I work hard here, too. It’s not going to be so bad. And it’s not like she can make him leave me. I’ll make sure of that.”

  I laugh. Maybe she will be able to handle her. It’s possible. At least Masood would be good for her.

  “Do you think I should have found a way at the house to tell Masood who I am?” I say.

  Soraya frowns. “I’m not sure. Maybe not right now. Is that so awful?” She looks at me like she’s asking permission. “Of course,” she says. “I’ll tell him. Later.
”

  It only takes two more weeks of visits for my stepmother to make up her mind. I keep expecting Baba to show up for the meetings but he never comes. Khalaa Gul keeps asking about him, but my stepmother makes excuses. The second time she said he wasn’t feeling well. This time he was away on business.

  Soraya is so happy. Her face glows. Mor used to talk about noor, this kind of glow that a bride and groom get when they’re righteous and about to get married. I always thought it was a myth, but here I see it myself.

  Some of the other girls like Fyma and Raisa grumble. They’re jealous. I wonder if I am, too. But I don’t think it’s jealousy that I’m feeling. I wouldn’t want to marry Masood. Islamically I could. He isn’t any relation to me. But I do feel strange about it.

  She’ll have a family again. My family.

  It’s that rip in me. I still feel it.

  They’ve set the date, and the mehr. In two weeks’ time we’ll have the nikah right here in the orphanage. Agha Abdul Hakeem will act as Soraya’s mehrem. The mehr is some jewelry. They haven’t shown it to Soraya yet. She can’t expect a lot. I can’t help wondering if they bought it with the money from Mor’s things, the money my father gave that woman for her mehr.

  I know I shouldn’t think like that. It does no good at all. I hope Agha Akram wouldn’t think this is a waste of the money he gave me from that mechanic. I want Soraya to have a new suit.

  I ask Khalaa Gul and she lets us go shopping although we still need to pick up some things for the cook and her. We find some beautiful red material with some intricate embroidery on it. It shimmers and flows, and the color looks fantastic against Soraya’s skin. We get time to work on it. Soraya doesn’t have to go to classes now. And Khalaa Kareema gives me time off so that I can help her.

  With each stitch, I think of Mor, the last time we sewed together. She was making me Eid clothes with a new blue porani, showing me how to cut the fabric and sew the stitches, how to shape the shoulder so it would leave enough room for movement. She said to make the stitches tiny so they wouldn’t come out, and with each stitch make a dua for Allah to protect the wearer so that even in the sewing there is worship.

  Mor is gone and now Soraya will leave. I think of how empty this place will be.

  I’m working on the neckline when I feel someone watching me. There’s a flash of movement behind the doorway. Soraya picks her way through the pins and threads on the floor and peeks around the doorway. She grabs Arwa by the arm and drags her in.

  “What’s the matter?” says Soraya.

  Arwa shakes her head, rubbing her dirty little face into Soraya’s dress. Somehow Soraya doesn’t mind. She pats Arwa’s matted hair and even picks her up and carries her to my bunk. She sets her down on her lap and just holds her.

  “It’s going to be all right, insha Allah, you’ll see.”

  Arwa’s voice is muffled. She still has her face pressed to Soraya’s chest.

  “But you’re the only one who’s nice to me. And you’re going.”

  Soraya glances at me. I feel like she’s asking me to take over for her.

  I look away. I know I shouldn’t be like this. How can Soraya stand her? She’s so filthy. If she’d just keep her face clean.

  Soraya says, “You and Jameela can visit me. And I’ll come to visit, too.”

  Arwa pulls away and looks up at Soraya.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. But right now Jameela and I have work to do.”

  Arwa glances at the material.

  “Can I help?”

  I groan. She’ll be touching everything with her sticky hands.

  Maybe Soraya’s thinking that, too, because she frowns for a moment.

  “This is too big for you to do.”

  “I could pick up all the scraps and put them in a pile. You want me to get the threads, too?”

  “All right.”

  I want to groan again.

  When Arwa has picked up every scrap and every thread, Soraya finally sends her on her way.

  I’ve been wondering for a long time, so I finally ask.

  “Soraya, why are you so close to her? She’s so filthy.” “She came here when she was just a baby. Nobody knows who brought her. I always took care of her. I guess she could use some cleaning up.”

  “Some?”

  Soraya frowns. “She’s not that bad. I guess I don’t notice it that much. I do tell her. She’s just not very coordinated when it comes to washing.”

  “You’re spoiling her.”

  Soraya doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s a cruel world. She’ll have to face that sooner or later.”

  Soraya still doesn’t say anything.

  “You’re too soft on her!”

  She sighs. “Someone has to be.”

  18

  “ARWA, come with me.”

  She doesn’t look up. “But I’m making my gift for Soraya.”

  I look closer. She’s twisting some of the scrap material she picked up, tying it with some of the thread.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a ribbon for Soraya’s hair.” Arwa’s face is smudged. A little stream runs out from her left nostril, and she’s licking at it with her tongue. It makes me feel sick, but it’s too late. She’s coming over already.

  “Where are we going?”

  If I tell her she might run away, so I just say, “You’ll see.”

  As we get closer to the bathroom she slows her steps. There’s growing alarm on her face.

  I grab her hand before she can turn and bolt. She’s pulling back. I have to drag her, trying not to lose my temper.

  “Don’t you want to be clean for the wedding? Think how happy Soraya will be.”

  That does the trick. She stops hanging back.

  I hope the water’s not cold by now. I warmed it up myself, two batches. One for Soraya and one for Arwa. I already had my bath. I don’t mind it cold.

  Arwa touches the water in the steaming bucket.

  “It’s warm.”

  And then suddenly she strips off all her clothes, dumping them on the ground.

  I say, “Yooo! You’re not supposed to do that.”

  She looks up at me completely unashamed.

  “Do what?”

  I cover my face so I don’t see her private parts.

  “Put your pants back on! You’re not supposed to show anyone between your bellybutton and your knees. That’s private. Actually, I’ll turn around, and you wash that part first. Scrub it real good and then put your pants back on.”

  She reaches for the precious bit of soap in my hand but I pull it away. Soap costs money. I can’t stand the thought of it touching her private parts.

  “Wet your hands. Then I’ll let you rub them on the soap.”

  Khalaa Kareema gave me this soap. I feel kind of greedy about it. I already let Soraya use it for her bath and it’s almost gone.

  “Like this,” I say, showing her how to lather it. When she finishes that area, I can look again. I tell her to scrub her face. She’s too gentle. I make her scrub harder, particularly around the nose.

  “But I’ll get suds up it.”

  “They won’t hurt you. Come on, now your hair.”

  That’s much harder so I help her. When she scoops out the water to rinse I see her rib bones like the fingers of a hand clasped around her back and sides. Subhanallah, she’s so tiny and vulnerable. If I wanted I could do anything to her. She’s lucky she can trust me.

  She flips her sopping wet hair to the side and squints up at me.

  “Done?” There are still suds in the top part.

  “Not yet.” I bend down and rinse them away. Then I show her how to scrub the rest of her and make wudu. She doesn’t even know how to make wudu!

  Cleaned up, she looks a lot better. She’ll never be beautiful but she’s all right. I turn my back as she gets dressed. And then I take out a comb and work through her hair.

  While I’m braiding it I have a strange feeling. Mor used to
braid mine just like this, with her right leg tucked up under her, sitting on the charpaee, with an elastic band clenched in her teeth.

  I grab her hand. She doesn’t flinch this time, and I look her right in the eye.

  “If I warm up the water for you, will you take more baths?”

  She looks down at the floor and nods, but I tell her to look me in the eye and answer out loud. I want to hear her promise.

  “Okay. I will.”

  “Good,” I say, picking up my blue porani. The end is ragged where I ripped off a piece to tie around that marker for Mor’s grave.

  I notch another bit and rip off a strip. I tuck it into Arwa’s sleeve.

  “Now, use this cloth to wipe your nose. I never want to see it running again.”

  “What do I do when it gets dirty?”

  I take a deep breath so I don’t snap at her.

  “You will wash it and spread it out to dry. Every night before you go to sleep if you have to.”

  “Can I use some of your soap?”

  I don’t have much, but I nod anyway.

  “Here.” I break off a piece and hand it to her.

  “Tashakur, Jameela!” And she hugs me. For once I don’t mind.

  I tell Arwa to go out so I can change into my nice clothes. On top of it I put my blue chadri. No one can see how I look underneath, but at least I know I look nice.

  When we’re ready we go down to the office where Soraya and Zeba are holed up in a room on the side. I knock on the door and Zeba lets us in.

  Soraya looks as beautiful as a red rose. Zeba did her hair up in a bun with bits dangling down the sides like I’ve seen on posters of Bollywood movie stars. Where did she get the makeup? Her lips match the dress.

  I leave my chadri on even though it’s all women. It doesn’t feel very private here.

  Soraya’s face lights up when Arwa dangles her “gift” before her. I can’t believe she tells Zeba to pin it into her hair. It dangles in front of her bun like a red hairy caterpillar.

  Khalaa Gul slips in without knocking. She looks at Soraya and smiles.

  “How much more time do you need?” Then she picks up the bag that’s beside Zeba and hunts through the plastic jars and bottles. She takes out this black tube and unscrews it. It has the tiniest black brush. Khalaa Gul starts brushing Soraya’s eyelashes with it.