Wanting Mor (Large Print 16pt)

by Rukhsana Khan

  “This will make them stand out.”

  But her eyelashes already stand out. She’s got the longest, prettiest lashes I’ve ever seen.

  When Khalaa Gul has finished, Soraya’s eyelashes have little black clumps along them and they look like they’re made of plastic.

  I think the noor is gone. I can hardly see it under all that makeup. But it’s none of my business, so I keep my mouth shut.

  We pin the red porani that came with the material to her hair. It does a lot to hide Arwa’s ribbon.

  Soraya will stay in this room. That way she won’t have to cover up in front of the men, only when they come to ask her permission.

  The door opens again and my stepmother comes in. I’m so glad I have my chadri on, but even then I’m shaking inside, praying that Allah gives Soraya strength to deal with her.

  The woman is back to wearing the tight revealing clothes: peacock blue with splotches of embroidery on it, and she has more makeup on than Soraya.

  She has a little jewelry case in her hands.

  “This is the mehr,” she says, and takes out a tiny little gold set complete with earrings, necklace, bracelets and ring. Elegantly, Soraya tilts her head to each side so she can put the earrings on and then bends forward so she can fasten the clasp of the necklace. It almost looks like she’s bowing to her!

  The ring is a bit tight. She tries to put it on Soraya’s finger but it won’t go, so Soraya does it herself. The bracelets are tight, too.

  My stepmother smiles and nods and goes back outside to join the men.

  Something makes me follow her. I can’t seem to stop myself. And when I see him there, I know why I had to come in here.

  A fist has grabbed my heart. It’s holding tight and won’t let go.

  He has his face turned away from me, talking to Agha Abdul Hakeem, nodding and laughing. His hair is long and wavy, and his beard is gone. He looks like one of those Bollywood movie stars. He’s got that same puffy soft look to him.

  He’s joking with the orphanage manager and then laughing at his own joke. How can he be laughing?

  I don’t know what I was expecting. That he would be drunk or dazed with opium? Not this. He’s still laughing and he turns to look around the room and sees me standing in the doorway. He stops laughing for a moment, then turns back to tell another joke.

  He can’t recognize me. I’m wearing the chadri.

  She goes over and whispers in his ear. He listens so attentively. So respectfully. He wasn’t that respectful with Mor.

  Doesn’t anyone ever ask about me? Doesn’t anyone ever wonder where I went? What do they tell people? Her sister saw me. She knew I existed. What did they tell her when I was gone?

  I turn around and go back into Soraya’s room. She looks so pretty. When I see her I feel only happiness for her. But now I do feel a twinge, not of jealousy but of yearning. I would like to get married one day, too. I wonder what her first night with Masood will be like, and then I blush and feel ashamed to be thinking of such things. She looks so happy. And I realize I’m smiling. Zeba is glued to her side. Khalaa Gul is standing nearby, perched on her high heels.

  Arwa is running around annoying people. As she runs past, I grab her arm and shove her into a corner.

  “Sit down!” I feel a bit sorry when I see her lip quiver, but she has to learn.

  Soraya sees me and calls me over to her other side. She locks her arm through mine and clasps my hand. It makes me feel good.

  “I’m so nervous!” she whispers.

  She doesn’t look nervous, just excited. I hope Masood stands up for her better than he stood up for me. But then things might be different for Soraya. She’s so strong. I was so weak back then. I can’t believe how I cowered and cringed all the time.

  That woman comes to the door and then walks right up in front of me, obviously expecting to take my place beside Soraya. Soraya grips my hand more tightly, but I pull myself away and get up quickly.

  “They’re about to begin,” she says.

  We all settle down. I’m in a corner with Arwa.

  In the next room, the mullaa starts with a khutba in Arabic, and then in Farsi he starts talking about the duties of a husband to his wife. I can understand almost all of it. With all the Farsi girls in the orphanage I’ve picked up a lot. Then in Pushto he talks more about the wife’s and the husband’s rights toward each other. And he talks about kindness and mercy to all family members.

  I watch her during all this talk. She’s chewing her lip. I wonder if she’s even listening. I wonder if her conscience bothers her. What did she tell herself that made it okay to make Baba get rid of me?

  Then we can hear the mullaa getting to his feet with the other men. I take out my good porani and put it over the flimsy one that’s covering Soraya’s hair, so she’s properly covered when the men come in to get her permission. She’s still got all that makeup on, but she looks very modest. The mullaa and Baba and one other witness stand outside the doorway until she says it’s all right for them to enter.

  My breath catches in my throat when I see Baba again. He looks quite dignified in his kurtha and salwar. I recognize it. It’s one of her old husband’s fancy outfits.

  They stand before Soraya. This is her moment. Three times they ask if she agrees to marry Masood. Three times she blushes and whispers, “Yes.”

  Baba steps forward then. With a dramatic flourish, he pats Soraya on her head and says, “You will be like my own daughter to me!”

  I gasp so loudly that everyone turns and looks. I wish I could run out of this room. Or I wish the floor could open up and swallow me. They keep staring at me.

  It takes forever for them to look away. The mullaa is all sympathy. He touches Baba on the arm and says, “May this girl be a comfort in your loss.”

  Around the room many say, “Ameen.”

  That woman turns to Soraya and whispers loudly enough for everyone to hear, “His daughter was lost.” She pauses. “In a minefield.”

  This time I don’t gasp, but Soraya does.

  Khalaa Gul nods sympathetically. From across the room Soraya’s eyes meet mine. Her mouth is open. She looks like she doesn’t know what to do.

  The best thing about a chadri is that unless you make a sound, nobody can tell that you’re crying.

  The ceremony goes on. That woman puts her arm around Soraya’s shoulders.

  Am I the only one who sees her glance at the people watching to make sure her affection looks genuine?

  And Baba, bending down to kiss Soraya on the forehead, welcoming her to the family, to my family. When was the last time he kissed me like that? I can’t even remember.

  Soraya’s jaw is set in a grim line. Her excitement is gone.

  And then the men go back and offer Soraya’s hand in marriage to Masood. We can hear him accept.

  That woman looks happy. She pulls out a bag filled with rose petals and marigolds. Red and orange petals cling to Soraya’s cheeks and plastic eyelashes. They must tickle.

  She’s smiling now. The sweet fragrance of roses mixes with the spicy scent of marigolds and spreads around the room.

  Baba passes a tray of fancy sweets. There are sugar-coated almonds, sticky orange gelabis, and cubes of pink and green sheer payra. These are some of the most expensive sweets you can buy.

  Khalaa Gul looks impressed. She takes several pieces.

  They might as well be made of sawdust. I can’t eat them. Too soon, it’s time for Soraya to leave. Khalaa Gul bawls so loudly I’m sure the men can hear. Soraya sees me across the room and raises her eyebrows. I have to smile. And smiling feels so strange.

  Soraya picks up Arwa and says, “I didn’t recognize you! You’re so clean!” Arwa giggles and hugs her around the neck so hard Soraya’s Bollywood hair is getting mussed up.

  Next comes Zeba. Soraya hugs her for such a long time, I feel a prick of jealousy. I wonder what she’s whispering to her. They glance at me a couple of times, and Zeba nods.

  Finally Soraya
gives Zeba one last hug and lets her go.

  Now it’s my turn to say goodbye and I can’t. I just stare at her through the mesh of the chadri.

  She grabs me tight and whispers into my ear, “This isn’t the end of it.”

  Through the blue fabric I whisper back, “No! Don’t do anything to ruin your future.”

  Soraya hugs me a bit tighter.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll see.” She grabs both my hands and pulls back to see me better. “I’m going to miss you. Bring Zeba. Come visit me.”

  I just nod. My throat is too tight to say anything. And then she lets go, and she’s gone. I can see the back of her, wearing my new porani, also my gift to her, with her walking by Soraya’s side.

  Hasbiyallahu wa ni’mal wakeel.

  19

  I’M WORKING with Arwa and some of the other girls on their math lesson when Khalaa Gul comes in with Zeba right behind her. Khalaa Gul speaks to Khalaa Kareema for a while in hushed tones. Khalaa Kareema seems upset.

  I hear her say, “It’s the middle of the class! Can’t she wait half an hour?”

  Khalaa Gul puts her hand on my shoulder and leads me into the hallway.

  “Here’s some money. Cook wants you to go to that same meat shop to see if you can get some more bones for free. Don’t use the money unless you have to.”

  I can’t believe her. She gets lots of money from all those foreigners. Agha Akram’s family needs to eat, too.

  She says, “And while you’re out there, I need some eggplant and yogurt to take home with me. You can find a shop along the way. You’re a bright girl. Take Zeba and don’t be too long about it.”

  Now I’m doing her shopping, too?

  We walk down many of the hallways until I realize Zeba’s leading me outside.

  “Wait! I have to get my chadri.”

  Zeba looks annoyed.

  “Don’t you get tired of wearing that thing? The Taliban are gone, you know.”

  I don’t bother answering.

  The streets are crowded. The sun is warm. Spring is on the way. I can smell it on the breeze. I’m almost glad I was sent on this errand.

  Zeba’s hair flows out behind her in waves, and her kameez is tight and cut low. The same men that lower their gaze and step aside for me to pass brush right up against her. She doesn’t seem to realize it’s not an accident.

  It’s been six days since Soraya left. I miss her.

  Zeba says, “Did you see the way Fyma and Raisa have taken over? They were just waiting for their chance! The way they told Fazeela to move out of that corner of the prayer hall so they could sit down in her place. Who do they think they are? I’d like to tell them off.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  A dirty young boy bumps right into Zeba then. I can see him squeeze her breast. This time Zeba gets mad and slaps him on the head. He runs off laughing.

  I know I shouldn’t find it funny, but somehow I can’t help smiling. The boy was so dirty and bold.

  Zeba is watching me. I make sure no giggles escape. For a while we walk in silence. She adjusts her porani so that it covers her hair and chest a bit.

  I wonder what’s happening with Soraya. I keep thinking of how she said it wasn’t over.

  It isn’t that hard now to find my way to Agha Akram’s shop. He glances at Zeba and says, “Where’s your pretty friend?”

  Zeba glares at him.

  His face goes red and he stammers a bit. I don’t think he meant to insult her.

  “I mean, that other girl, the one you came with before.”

  I tell him about Masood and his face clouds over. He glances at Zeba.

  “You mean she married that boy we met that night? At that house? With that woman?”

  I can tell he’s wondering if Zeba knows the relationship between Masood and me. I’m so scared he’s going to say something, but finally he just adds, “Subhanallah. How the qadr of Allah works!”

  When it’s time to pay for the bones Agha Akram keeps insisting he give them to us for free.

  Finally I say, “Please, Agha. The orphanage receives donations. You should be paid.”

  Agha Akram finally nods and accepts the money, although not the full amount, I’m sure.

  On the way out, Zeba says, “You could have just told Khalaa Gul you had to pay him and then kept the extra money. Then we could have got a kulfi or something.”

  What did Soraya ever see in this girl?

  We pick up the eggplant and yogurt at a shop down the road. The way Zeba bargains is amazing. I can only stand there in admiration.

  The man who owns the shop seems to be enjoying it, too. He’s waving his arms around, telling her he has five children to feed and she’s stealing food out of their mouths. Zeba yells right back, saying that this is for the orphanage and we have many more children to feed.

  But this isn’t for the orphanage. It’s for Khalaa Gul.

  It’s amazing how easily Zeba can lie. Doesn’t it bother her? He knocks the price down by an Afghani but still she argues. He goes to serve another customer.

  I whisper to Zeba, “We’re already getting it for a bargain. Let’s just pay and go.”

  “Wait. He’ll come down another bit. I’m sure of it.”

  It takes another ten minutes of haggling but sure enough he does lower the price even more. When he dishes the yogurt into a container and hands us the eggplants, he nods at Zeba with a smile on his face, and Zeba grins right back.

  At the street, instead of going back to the orphanage, she turns left.

  “But we’ve finished,” I say.

  “You don’t want to go back without seeing Soraya, do you?” She plunges into an alleyway. “It’s down this way.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I went to visit her a few days ago, when Khalaa Gul sent me to the market.”

  “How did you find your way?”

  Zeba shrugs. “Soraya told me.”

  “When?!”

  “When she was hugging me at the nikah. She wanted me to bring you today. That’s why I told Khalaa Gul about getting the bones for free.”

  Zeba’s walking so fast it’s hard to keep up. We pass three alleyways, charge down this street past the curve and up that way.

  After five minutes things start to look familiar.

  “It’s very noisy around here,” Zeba grins. “Hear that? Sounds like someone’s having an argument.”

  Slowly Zeba turns up toward that woman’s house. Some of the doors to the other houses are open. Three old women have brought their stools out into the street and are sifting through grains of rice, their ears cocked in the direction of my stepmother’s house. A man is in the lane, taking his time to adjust the chain on his bicycle. Other people are just standing around, barely disguising the fact that they’re listening.

  Now I can make out Masood’s voice.

  “Do you think I’m going to let you treat Soraya like you treated her?!”

  The gate is wide open. Zeba pauses in front of it. I hang back.

  Soraya is standing on the other side of Masood, away from her. My stepmother’s hair looks messy. Her porani is off her head and sideways.

  She glances at the gate and says, “Don’t be silly...dear. I’d never treat your wife...badly.” She gathers herself up to stand tall. “And I never treated her badly either, as Allah is my witness.”

  Soraya hisses like a cat. “How dare you bring Allah into this to prop up your lies! Do you really think I don’t know?”

  My stepmother laughs nervously. Her tone goes soft.

  “Come inside. Let’s talk about this calmly.”

  Two of the old women glance at each other, their hands across their mouths to hide their smiles.

  Soraya finally notices us standing there.

  “Zeba!” She rushes forward and hugs her tightly.

  Many emotions seem to pass over my stepmother’s face, from annoyance to the realization that she has visitors who could take their own versions of what’s happening
farther out into the world.

  She steps forward.

  “Zeba! How nice to see you again! Daughter...dear, do invite your friend in. We’ll make some tea.”

  Zeba turns and grabs my arm.

  “Look who I brought!”

  I hold my breath. She must not tell. Soraya looks worried, too.

  Then Zeba says, loudly enough for everyone on the street to hear, “I brought Jameela.”

  20

  THE THREE old women with the rice gasp, almost dropping their bowls. They jump up and peer at me. The man with the bicycle stares, too. And the other people who were just standing around send the children, perhaps to spread the news.

  Zeba looks confused. Masood’s lower jaw is hanging open. My stepmother’s face is red and swollen. She looks like she’s getting ready to say something but Baba comes running out of the house right toward me. He looks half wild, with his eyes bloodshot and his hair flying in all directions.

  He grabs my arm and yells, “Where have you been?!”

  The neighbors who are still hanging around cast side-long glances at each other while he drags me in and slams the gate.

  Masood is shaking his head. To Soraya he says, “If I don’t leave now, I’ll lose my job.” He nods at me. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

  When he goes through the gate to leave I can see the neighbors’ kids peeking in. Baba bolts the door. When he turns around he doesn’t look wild any more. His gaze shifts between his wife on one side and me, Soraya and Zeba on the other.

  My stepmother finally finds her voice. She turns to Soraya.

  “What is going on here? Is this your doing?”

  Soraya shakes her head. “It’s you who have done things.”

  Zeba still looks confused. She must think we’re all crazy.

  My stepmother starts saying, “As Allah is my witness...”

  I interrupt. “Don’t.” With Masood gone and the door closed I can take off my chadri. She and Baba stare like they’re seeing me for the first time.