The Sound of Language

by Amulya Malladi

  “If he's still alive why did you come here alone?” Layla asked. “Why did you think he was dead?”

  “I don't know,” Raihana said. “Look … I can't marry anyone.”

  Layla sighed. “Raihana, you need to find out. Is Aamir alive?”

  “I don't know,” Raihana said.

  “But you told us he was dead,” Layla said.

  Raihana shook her head. “The refugee camp people decided he was dead, that he died in a Taliban prison. And he … why can't we leave it? I don't want to talk about this.” She had tears in her eyes and she was just about ready to open the door of the moving car and jump out.

  “Okay, okay, we will leave it,” Kabir said. “It's up to you, Raihana. You don't even have to think about it if you don't want to. Just forget what we said, okay. Right, Layla?”

  Layla ignored her husband. “What exactly happened to Aamir?” she asked Raihana. “Why can't you tell us? You can't live like this anymore. Half in Afghanistan … is that why you keep talking about going back? Because you think he might be alive?”

  Why wouldn't they leave it alone? Raihana wondered. She didn't want to talk about Aamir, didn't they understand?

  “Layla, let it go,” Kabir said.

  “Oh, Raihana, what are we going to do with you?” Layla said softly and patted Raihana's shoulder. “Okay, forget about this, but let me tell you about this woman you will meet there. Shafiqa has six children and is pregnant with a seventh. She has been pregnant so long that she has never gone to Danish class. Her husband just sits at home doing nothing … with six children they get so much welfare money that they can sit at home.”

  Kabir grunted. “These types of refugees give us all a bad name. Sons of bitches should get jobs.”

  “Hush, no bad language,” Layla said, watching Shahrukh to see if he had picked up the bad word. “And what about that guy who used to have a shop in Århus, at Bazaar Vest?”

  “That fellow is completely useless,” Kabir said. “His wife now, she's something else. She runs the shop. Got a divorce, kicked him out of the house.”

  “What else could she do?” Layla said. “He used to beat her. She ended up in the hospital, once with a broken wrist. There are just too many men out there who think women are punching bags.”

  And so they left the matter of Raihana, her marriage, and her possibly dead husband alone. But they would eventually ask again, she knew, and she still didn't know what to say.

  The wedding was taking place in a forsamlinghus, community center, in Viborg, where Elias lived and had a kiosk that sold magazines, hot dogs, beverages, and household supplies. It was not his only kiosk; he had two others in neighboring Ørum and one right outside Viborg. He ran the one close to Viborg while his two sons manned the others. Business was very good and Elias was one of the few well-off Afghans in the area.

  Layla started to find fault as soon as they stepped into the wedding hall.

  “Look at that,” Layla said. “Father of the groom, you would think he would dress in traditional Afghan clothes, but no, he's wearing a suit.”

  Raihana smiled. “But so is Kabir, Layla.”

  “Kabir is younger than Elias, different generation,” Layla said and gasped. “See that? Allah, what has the world come to?”

  One of the Afghan men had his arm around a Danish woman dressed in a knee-length black skirt and white blouse.

  “That is Walid Chacha's son, Uzra,” Kabir whispered. “He broke Wal id Chacha's heart by getting engaged to that Danish girl.”

  Raihana had never heard of an Afghan engaged to a white person. It just wasn't done. In Kabul this would've been unthinkable, here, the white girl was invited to a wedding. Poor Walid Chacha, this was probably not easy for him.

  “But they have been here for almost fifteen years now. Uzra is more Danish than Afghan,” Layla said, then grabbed her son close. “I will never let things get so out of hand that Shahrukh runs around with a white woman. We'll find him a nice Afghan girl, a nice Pashtun girl.”

  Raihana didn't say anything but as she looked around it was obvious there were two main groups of guests. One was the older generation and the new refugees. The others were the younger generation who were born and raised in Denmark, those who spoke Danish more fluently than they did Dari, those who didn't mind having Danish girlfriends and spoke to one another in Danish.

  Shahrukh would be like one of the young Afghans here, Raihana thought. He would be more Danish than Afghan and Layla would not be able to control him. Raihana wasn't sure if that was a bad thing or not. A part of her wanted to hold on to their culture and traditions, but another wanted to claim the world they were living in now. Denmark was not Afghanistan. Wouldn't an Afghan wearing Danish clothes and speaking fluent Danish fit in better than someone like Layla, who struggled with the Danish language and wore a hijab and abaya?

  “As'salam alaikum, Kabir Miya.” Elias carne up to them and hugged Kabir tightly.

  “The wedding hall looks excellent,” Kabir said.

  Elias grinned. “My oldest son, Kabir Miya, have to get him married right.”

  “As'salam alaikum, where is Najeeba?” Layla asked.

  “Out there with the other women doing God knows what,” Elias said proudly. “Wedding rush you know, mother of the groom stays busy.”

  “Maybe we can help,” Layla offered.

  “You must be Raihana,” Elias said, turning to Raihana. “As'salam alaikum.”

  “Walaikum as'salam,” Raihana said, “everything looks very beautiful.”

  Elias thanked her and as she and Layla walked away, Raihana heard Elias say, “She is perfect for Rafeeq.”

  So, Raihana thought, the man's name was Rafeeq.

  This was very different from how marriages were set up back home. She and Aamir had gotten married in Kabul and that day everything had changed for her. She had moved from a small village to a big city—from being a daughter to a wife. But it had been remarkably easy in many ways because Aamir's father was her mother's cousin and she had grown up seeing Aamir, his parents, and his sister, Assia. His parents had died by the time they married, but Assia accepted Raihana with open arms.

  Ismat, Assia's much older husband, was a doctor and he was horrified when the Taliban demanded he stop treating women. His nurses were not allowed to work and were sent home to live behind the purdah. His female colleagues were not allowed to work. Ismat had told Raihana how one of his colleagues, a widow and single mother, now had to beg on the streets to support her three children because she no longer had any income.

  That last month had been chaotic, what with Aamir and Ismat trying to find a way out for all of them. But in the end Aamir had scrounged enough money for Raihana only. She was to go first as they had all decided that her need was the greatest.

  Ismat and Assia were not in the refugee camp; Raihana had looked. It would have been easy to find an Afghan doctor in a refugee camp. The only doctor there was a retired old gentleman from Ghazni whose son-in-law had been executed in a football stadium. They had shot him in the head, the old doctor told Raihana. His daughter had committed suicide and his wife died of cancer shortly thereafter. He was the only one left and though he could get asylum in America or Canada he stayed at the refugee camp.

  Ismat had been married before Assia, but his first wife had died. He had grown sons who lived in Pakistan and were not in close touch with him. Assia had told Raihana that she had always thought Ismat was special and when his parents proposed marriage, Aamir jumped at the idea. Ismat was respectable and came from an honorable family and Assia seemed to be happy about the marriage.

  Assia and Ismat had dreams of renting a moving hospital to help the people living in villages where medical help was not available. Raihana thought their ideas were up in the skies. She was a girl from a small town and all she wanted was a home and family. But Ismat believed he could save the world, that he could save Afghanistan.

  Then a few months after she arrived in Pakistan, Raihana found out t
hat both Assia and Ismat had been shot in their home. Just like that. It had happened a few days after she had left. They never made it to Pakistan or to their dreams in the sky. Raihana knew she was lucky to be here. Lucky to be able to sit here at a wedding and pretend that the past didn't exist.

  “My daughter-in-law, Farida,” Najeeba announced loudly, gesturing to the girl dressed in a green-and-gold salwar-kameez. Her hair was tied stylishly with ringlets falling around her made-up face. Her lipstick was bright red and jewelry bright gold.

  “Isn't she just a piece of the moon?”

  “Absolutely beautiful,” Layla said, peering at the girl's face. “Isn't she, Raihana?”

  “Very beautiful,” Raihana said in agreement.

  For the wedding ceremony, they all congregated in one of the side rooms where the food was going to be served. Flowers adorned the room with garlands of marigolds hanging alongside shiny gold curtains, tulips and azaleas in big vases, and rose petals strewn across the floor. Colorful pillows, toshaks, were thrown on thick Afghan carpets and suddenly it didn't feel as if they were in Denmark; this could just as well have been Kabul.

  A Farhad Darya song was playing on the CD player and women were drinking tall glasses of cool sherbet, tasting the way it should, of almonds, milk, sugar, and rosewater.

  “Sherbet, straight from Hamburg,” Najeeba said and offered a glass to Layla.

  “Straight from Afghanistan, that's what you should say,” a heavily pregnant woman suggested. “Layla, is that Raihana? Allah hafiz, I am Shafiqa.”

  Raihana bowed her head a little. She remembered Layla telling her about the woman who had six children and was pregnant again.

  “The nikah ceremony was at home,” Najeeba told Raihana as they sat down, snacking on dried apricots, sugarcoated almonds, and salted peanuts. The nikah ceremony was the religious and solemn part, where the marriage contract was signed. The arusi, the fun and celebration, followed the nikah.

  “I told Elias that we will pull out all the stops for the arusi. Nothing left to chance,” Najeeba said, smiling broadly. For an arusi, this was more than adequate, Raihana thought. It was grand, in fact, nothing like she had seen in Afghanistan.

  “Have you met Hadi?” Najeeba asked. “Such a good boy. Most boys here, they don't want to marry who their parents choose. Look at Uzra, going around with some white girl. Allah, what has the world come to? I'd rather die than have that happen to me. But my Hadi, we said marry this girl and he said yes, and Farida … like I said is a piece of the moon.”

  “So, Najeeba, they will live with you,” Layla asked as she arranged her dupatta over her shoulder.

  Raihana smiled to herself. Layla had told her that Hadi and Farida were not going to be living with Najeeba and Elias. The couple had rented an apartment in Viborg and planned to live there. If it were up to Hadi, he would've preferred to live with his parents, or so Najeeba said. It was Farida who wanted to live alone. Not that Najeeba was blaming anyone.

  “They are a young couple, they need their privacy,” Najeeba said. “We understand; times have changed. Young couples don't live with their parents anymore. It is the way it is when you live in a foreign country.”

  “These are bad times,” a woman wearing a pink-and-white salwar-kameez said. “Did you read the news report in jyllands Posten the other day? My husband showed it to me. They are saying that immigrants working in Denmark take more sick holidays than Danes because they have exotic diseases. What nonsense is that, I ask?”

  “Exotic diseases?” another woman said. She was wearing a dress similar to Raihana's and her hair had been dyed with henna. “What, they think we have some special diseases in Afghanistan? Like what?”

  “God knows,” Najeeba said. “You should see how these Danes talk to us at the kiosk, like we have stolen something from them. We are citizens too, have EU passports and everything. But they behave like we are taking something from them.”

  “How long have you been here, Raihana?” the woman with the henna-dyed hair asked. Though Najeeba had rattled out everyone's name when they first sat down, Raihana couldn't remember them all.

  “Just ten months,” Raihana said.

  “And she already speaks great Danish,” Layla said proudly. “Passed module two in four months’ time.”

  “I heard that you are doing a strange praktik for some Danish man, going to his house alone and whatnot,” a woman in a white-and-blue salwar-kameez in the corner put in.

  “Madiha,” Najeeba cried out.

  “I help him with his honeybees,” Raihana said calmly. “I have experience, you see. I used to help my chacha who made honey and silk.”

  “So what do you do to help?” Madiha asked, undeterred by Najeeba's shushing.

  “I check the beehives; help make frames so that the bees will have more room to make honey. I help him add more boxes to increase the size of the colonies and when it is time to harvest, I will help him make honey,” Raihana said. “What do you do for praktik?”

  Madiha snorted. “I work in a factory.”

  “What kind of—” Layla began when Najeeba clapped her hands. “Enough, enough, the wedding singers have arrived.”

  As Raihana got up to leave, Farida, the bride, touched her shoulder. “She works in a meatpacking factory and hates it,” she said. “They are just envious that you don't have to clean supermarkets and pack meat like them.”

  Raihana smiled at her new ally. “She is my mother's cousin,” Farida said. “I can't stand her either.”

  Usually the bride went and got ready while food and tea were served. However, since they were in Denmark things were being done a little differently. Farida was already dressed and mingling with the other female guests.

  When Raihana married Aamir, she didn't see Aamir until after the nikah ceremony, during which she signed her marriage contract by proxy. Here, the bride and groom went together to city hall and signed their marriage contract before the nikah.

  If they'd had the choice, she knew Aamir would've preferred this Western-style wedding. He would have liked the idea of her standing next to him as they were married. She would have liked that too.

  The groom was seated on a takht, throne, raised up on a platform, and was dressed in plush red velvet and gold. Farida's veil was pulled over her face and her mother, Khusboo, held the Koran over her daughter's head. As soon as Farida sat down next to Hadi, the mirror ceremony began. The Takhtee Khina was brought out and put on the table in front of Farida and Hadi. The silver tray had a beautifully embroidered brown shawl on it and a bowl with henna.

  Najeeba slid the Koran under the shawl and Hadi leaned over and whispered something to the veiled Farida, who giggled.

  Layla shook her head at the blatant disregard for tradition. The groom and bride were just too free with each other before the ceremony was even complete. Raihana watched with a shaft of longing going through her. Had she ever been that young? That playful? Had she and Aamir giggled and been happy?

  Farida removed the shawl from the tray and opened the Koran. Both Farida and Hadi read the lines expected of them. There was no accent to their voice, nothing Danish about what they said and how they said it. Raihana thought that no matter where they lived, Afghans would always be Afghans.

  Farida's father, who was dressed in traditional Afghan clothes, put henna in Hadi's hand and wrapped it with a piece of white cloth, and then Elias did the same for Farida.

  The ceremonies that followed were less formal and more gregarious than the mirror ceremony. Farida removed her veil and laughed openly while talking to Hadi.

  “They knew each other before the wedding,” Madiha, whom Raihana didn't like at all, said to Layla. “Look at them cavorting.”

  Layla's eyebrows went up. “Not arranged, you think?”

  Madiha leaned closer, conspiratorially. “Lucky for Najeeba that Hadi went and fell in love with an Afghan, an Uzbek at that. Look at Walid; he keeps threatening to kill Uzra. And that Danish girl, couldn't she wear our clothes whe
n she comes to one of our weddings?”

  Raihana looked at the Danish woman who was watching the proceedings with her eyes wide. She kept asking Uzra questions. She had probably watched the ceremonies more keenly than anyone. Everyone else was busy chatting, drinking sherbet and molina.

  After the ceremonies ended the bride and the groom were seated on a velvet sofa in the main room of the community center while the wedding singer—hired from Århus for an insane five thousand kroner according to Madiha—started singing “Khinna-ba-karha,” the traditional wedding song, followed by other popular wedding songs like “Aros-e jan-e madar.”

  “Ask him to sing something by Larmal Wasiq next, Ammi,” Farida said to her mother, who sat on the sofa next to her. “Have you listened to his Qeel-o-qal album, Raihana?”

  Raihana looked up, uncomfortable at being singled out by the bride. She hadn't listened to the album and said as much.

  Farida grinned. “We just love his music, don't we, Hadi?” she asked her husband who smiled, his thin mustache wiggling as he spoke softly to his wife.

  “What you love, I love,” he said, making his bride laugh.

  “I will listen to a Farhad Darya ghazal any day,” Layla said. “And we also have to listen to songs from all Shahrukh Khan's movies. You know Kabir—to be his wife I had to love everything about another man, Shahrukh Khan.”

  Everyone laughed and the conversation turned to Indian movies and songs.

  “Aishwarya Rai, she is just forty-five kilograms,” one of the men said. “And she is so tall. They say almost five feet eight inches. Ah, now that is beauty.”

  “Hakim knows her weight, height, and everything else in between,” another man joked.

  It had been a long time since music had been a part of Raihana's life. When she first came to Pakistan, it had been a shock to listen to music being played out loud in the open. During the Taliban regime, she and Assia would turn on the tape recorder very low and listen to songs. Assia had been the brave one, wanting to put the volume a little higher while Raihana was so scared that she wanted to turn the music off. They never knew when someone might be listening outside the flat, by the window. They could be arrested, killed for doing this.