A House Without Windows

by Nadia Hashimi

  Gulnaz was an only child, another oddity attributed to her mysterious powers.

  She must have cast a nazar on her mother’s womb in the nine months she was in there. Not a single child after her! Allah have mercy!

  When Gulnaz was born, Afghanistan had been flirting with madness. The Soviets had just helped build an airport in Kabul. They poured money into the small country, showering her with compliments and adorning her wrists and ears with jewelry.

  In hard times, when the murshid seemed to have lost his connection to the Almighty, onion fields remained fallow. Horses fell ill and died. Prayers went unanswered. Rumors spread that the murshid was a spy for outside nations. He was selling out his own Afghans, they said. He was an emissary for the Russians, the Americans, or the British, depending on who was asked, feeding them information about the local officials and the movements of the mujahideen. Any bottle of perfume, any ink pen, any nickel-plated teakettle in his home was evidence of his duplicity.

  But when people were desperate enough, they’d turn even to a suspected spy if it meant putting food back on their tables or saving the life of a child.

  Gulnaz had watched her father puff from the attention of the townspeople. Visitors would come to their home, arms laden with gifts, and cry their woes to the murshid. He would listen to them, cup his hands in supplication with them. And then, as if a broken pipe had been soldered back together, the murshid’s prayers would restore life and hope.

  It was not surprising that his body aged at a different pace than those around him. The unending pleas from neighbors, the scandalizing rumors, and the strife within the family compound weighed heavily on him. Prestige was a blessing and a beast.

  Her father had never believed that people actually gave weight to the superstitions about green eyes. He would smile softly and brush his daughter’s hair from her eyes.

  “These eyes? How could anyone think these eyes would bring anything but joy? Nazar is born from a lack of faith. It is something that exists where God does not. Your eyes are not the source of nazar, Gulnaz. Everyone in our village should know better than to think that.”

  But they didn’t know better. Gulnaz and her mother kept out of sight when visitors called upon the murshid, which they did nearly daily. Gulnaz would hide in the courtyard of their home and watch as his magic unfolded. When she was nine or ten, she became more curious as to what her father did that had people leave looking so comforted, as if a burden had been lifted from their shoulders.

  She followed one visitor to find out. A man with a basket of eggs was escorted by one of Gulnaz’s cousins, led through the compound at a leisurely stroll, making small talk along the way. In the meantime, another cousin darted around the back of the house, with Gulnaz close behind. He made his way to the room where Safatullah received guests. Breathless, he told the murshid about the visitor, the basket of eggs he had brought and his ailing wife.

  The man was announced, entering the room with his head bowed and a hand over his heart in respect. The murshid extended a hand in greeting and kissed his guest’s cheeks. From the hallway behind the sitting room, Gulnaz could hear her father clear his throat.

  “It is wonderful to see you, my friend, though I wish you would have come under happier circumstances. I sense something troubles you deeply.”

  “You’re most right, Safatullah-sahib,” the man said, his voice gravelly with emotion.

  “And what weighs on your mind most doesn’t seem to be what troubles lesser men. You are not here to ask God for more food or more land. No, your heart has no greed. You are here about something far more important.”

  “Oh, good murshid! My soul is bare to you!”

  “Your eyes tell your pain. How is your dear wife doing?”

  “She is not well, sahib. She grows weaker by the day. The fevers come and go. Her skin and eyes have yellowed. I beg her to eat, but she can’t bring anything to her lips. I fear the children will soon be without a mother, and I don’t know what else to do. We’ve tried all the remedies my elders recommended for us.”

  “You must have faith. Allah knows best for you. He will not allow her to suffer this way, not when you have both been such devout people. God is merciful, my dear friend. Let’s make a prayer together . . .”

  With hands cupped, heads bowed, and shoulders swaying side to side, the men would pray. Gulnaz’s cousin caught a glimpse of her peeking into the room and shooed her away.

  Gulnaz was struck by the way her father had spoken, a voice so different from what she was accustomed to. The voice of the murshid was patient, soothing. Her father’s voice was harsher, sometimes angry, other times jovial. It was as if he were two different men, one for his family and one for the townspeople who called upon him for miracles. Gulnaz started to learn from him then. She would hide and listen carefully, her back to the wall and her ears straining to catch every word. She learned the right tone of voice, the right words, when to pause. Some things she added on her own, the tilt of her head, the clasp of her hands. She practiced when no one was around, whispering prayers in the dark before she went to sleep as if she were rehearsing for a day when she would take her father’s place. Only her mother noticed, and she was more amused than anything else.

  The more Gulnaz watched her father, the more intrigued she became by the amount of respect he garnered for his simple efforts. People often came back, praising him with more gifts when their prayers had been answered. For those who were not so fortunate, the murshid offered gentle explanations and guided them through their sadness. The poor man with the basket of eggs came back devastated when his wife succumbed to her illness.

  “You see, my friend. Allah did not allow her to suffer. Allah knows best and will take care of your children. Let’s pray together for your children now . . .”

  And in that way, disquieted hearts were calmed. People found solace. The murshid remained beloved and needed, a pillar of the community. Gulnaz became hungry for the same adoration, the same power. She asked her father if she could sit with him while he received his visitors but he refused. She asked him to teach her how he performed his miracles, how he raised the people’s prayers to God’s ears.

  “It’s not a thing that should be taken lightly,” he said, shaking his head. “What I do is not to entertain myself or others. It is not because I want people bowing at my feet. It’s because people are in need of help. They need something that I can offer, and Allah has pointed to me to fill this need. It is not something I chose. It was chosen for me.”

  Gulnaz knew he was speaking from his heart. She knew because his voice was abrupt and sharp—it was her father’s voice, not the placating voice of the murshid.

  When she tried to pray out loud and within her family compound, she was met with cynical looks from her cousins, aunts, and uncles. They questioned her motives and shook their heads at her attention-seeking. In their skeptical eyes, she wasn’t devout. She was playing with fire.

  But Gulnaz wanted to be good. She wanted to look after people the way her father did. She copied his prayers, she mimicked his words. She would pop in and tell relatives that she had prayed for them or for their children.

  But when a family refused to give their daughter’s hand in marriage, when a son broke his leg playing soccer, when a woman’s face broke out in hives—they would remember that Gulnaz had stopped by that morning, that week, or even a month ago. She was turned away, politely by some and forcefully by others.

  These were the same people who would kiss the murshid’s hands in gratitude for a simple dua. Gulnaz could not understand why her benevolent gestures were met with such resistance.

  “It has nothing to do with your faith,” her mother had explained. “It has everything to do with theirs.”

  Gulnaz, at ten years old, had become embittered. It felt as if everything that went wrong was thrown at her feet, even when she kept to herself. Outside her family’s compound, she was not the beloved daughter of the murshid. She was Gulnaz with the dangerous green ey
es.

  She was meant to do bigger things. She was meant to affect people, she knew. Why couldn’t they see it?

  Safatullah told her not to distress herself. Sometimes people needed time to understand what was best for them.

  Disappointed, Gulnaz bottled the gifts she believed she’d inherited from her father. But inside of her, they began to boil over and transform into a very different energy. She could not hold it in.

  She decided to live up to the image they’d created of her. When the mood struck her, she could make their narrowed eyes quiver with fright.

  Gulnaz liked how powerful she felt. She was in control.

  By the time she was an adolescent, Gulnaz had harnessed the effect her green eyes had on others. With a few careful, sweet words, she could manipulate situations to suit her mood. For Gulnaz, it became a sport. Since she’d never known a time when people saw her as innocent, she didn’t feel guilty about it in the least. They’d created this Gulnaz, this young woman who drew strength from their suspicions, from their fears. Her extended family treated her delicately, loving her at arm’s length and burning espand seeds in her wake to smoke away the effect of her gaze. Her mother resented how the family treated Gulnaz and was proud that her daughter had learned to use their fears against them. It was much better than being their victim.

  Gulnaz loved her father, the murshid, as any daughter would, but she was utterly devoted to her mother. Her mother understood her and loved her wholly, unconditionally. From the moment she opened her eyes in the morning, she could feel her mother’s watchful gaze. She would see her whispering prayers and blowing blessings her way. Because of her mother, Gulnaz could walk tall through the compound regardless of the mood of the rest of the family.

  “My daughter, keep your tricks to yourself for now. You’re a young woman, and this is not the time to show off the things you can do. Those are a woman’s talents, not a girl’s.”

  Gulnaz understood her mother was preparing her for marriage. She came from a much respected family and was unquestionably beautiful, but if word trickled out into the rest of town that she could wreak havoc on a household with a pinch of spice and a ball of clay, no family would even consider courting her for their son.

  Gulnaz didn’t think much of marriage, but out of respect for her mother, she did as she was told. Her mother casually mentioned that Gulnaz had outgrown her make-believe powers. Gulnaz, doing her part, kept her eyes safely downcast. She kept a neutral smile on her face and pretended to be a demure girl. By the time two years had passed, the family had grown considerably more welcoming toward her. Gulnaz missed the way she could send ripples through family gatherings but took solace in the knowledge that she’d simply reined in her powers. That, too, was a manifestation of her control.

  WHEN GULNAZ TURNED FIFTEEN, HER MOTHER BEGAN TO TAKE her to festivals and gatherings. She was old enough to sit with the women and be seen at her mother’s side. Her looks were quite striking, and the women took notice. She could feel eyes on her, checking the fullness of her eyebrows, the straightness of her teeth, the promising curve of her hips. The boys in town became intrigued by the excited descriptions their mothers shared with them.

  Remember to act like a lady, her mother would warn her before they left the house. Answer questions politely and kiss the hands of the gray haired. Keep your voice and words soft. We’re the murshid’s family and people expect more of us.

  Gulnaz would nod her head. She’d been hearing the same instructions since she’d been a little girl and knew perfectly well how to carry herself.

  It was fall and just a few months from Gulnaz’s sixteenth birthday. The murshid’s family had been invited to a wedding. The groom belonged to one of the more well-to-do families in town, who had expressly invited Safatullah, grateful for the blessings he’d given their son before his engagement, and insisted that his wife and daughter accompany him for the celebration.

  Gulnaz was excited. She’d never attended a wedding before. The promise of music, dancing, and lavish dresses tickled her curiosity.

  Her dress was picked out months before the party. Just before leaving the house, Gulnaz’s mother retrieved a pair of eighteen-karat gold filigree earrings from her jewelry box and placed them in her daughter’s palm. Gulnaz put them on and swiveled her head side to side to feel them dangle from her lobes. She felt positively exquisite, considering her usual unadorned attire.

  When she and her mother entered the women’s hall, Gulnaz’s mouth dropped. The music was so loud, she could almost feel the rhythm of the tabla beating within her chest. Thin vases holding red roses sat atop round tables draped with pink tablecloths. The large banquet hall had been partitioned by a heavy curtain that ran the length of the room. The women, protected from the view of the men, shook their shoulders and let their hips undulate to the dance music, the quick tempo carrying them across the dance floor, spinning them and bringing them to a halt as if it were an actual dance partner. Giddy faces glistened with sweat. They laughed and squealed at each other’s moves.

  The older women and bashful adolescents stayed in their seats and clapped in encouragement or looked on with interest. Mothers of young men watched with a keen eye, looking for a girl who was beautiful but not too haughty, someone who danced well but not too suggestively, a girl who glowed with innocence and virtue and fertility.

  Gulnaz and her mother wove through the maze of tables and chairs to join their relatives, seated far enough away from a cluster of vibrating speakers that they could have some conversation. The sharp sound of the electronic keyboard, a synthesizer blending familiar beats, and the melody of the up-tempo song echoed through the room.

  Gulnaz’s eyes scanned the hall, drinking in the sounds, so much louder than anything she could remember. She brushed wisps of hair from her forehead, enjoying the clink of the bangles, the feel of the cool metal against her wrist. She felt her mother’s hand against her back, guiding her to the table. Gulnaz kept her eyes lowered, playing her part to her mother’s satisfaction.

  Her dress was the color of a peacock’s feathers, blended together in an exotic and rich cotton. Narrow sleeves ended just below her elbow and the narrow waistline opened into a long, generous skirt that billowed as she walked. A panel of gold embroidery and small mirrors covered her budding chest. The regal stitching swirled from the shoulders to the cuffs, which were lined in a satin of the deepest emerald green. The dress was extravagant but, on some holidays, the murshid chose to spoil his daughter.

  Gulnaz crossed the room, heads turning as she placed one foot in front of the other. Her dark hair fell gently against her shoulders, her eyes vibrant and striking. Gulnaz’s lips curled into a shy, barely noticeable smile. By the time she reached her table, Gulnaz had become acutely aware that her beauty was magnetic, unmatched, and, most important, powerful.

  IN THE THREE WEEKS AFTER THE WEDDING, SAFATULLAH’S HOME was visited by a flood of callers, unusual even for the esteemed murshid. What was most peculiar was that it was women knocking on the gates and that they were asking to see the murshid’s wife. Gulnaz’s mother would push her amused daughter into the next room or out of the house while women showered her with platitudes.

  Gulnaz would smile coyly from behind a closed door or with an ear pressed to the clay wall. She giggled at the flattery, the way the mothers lauded their sons’ good looks, intelligence, and sense of honor. Sometimes she would slip past the room just to tempt them with a glimpse. Why bother with magic when she could make grown women bend and jump just by showing a sliver of her face?

  The suitors were plentiful and persistent. Gulnaz’s dark reputation was a thing of the past, a childish phase, a distraction to keep the suitors at bay. A few of Gulnaz’s aunts and cousins watched the wave of interest with suspicion. They explained the phenomenon in whispers and knowing glances: Gulnaz had bewitched the village.

  Gulnaz became the most sought after young woman in town, and her parents felt compelled to wed her soon lest that desirability backfir
e. Surely, those who had been turned away would be disappointed, and spiteful tongues could make Gulnaz out to be a heartbreaker or a temptress.

  Gulnaz’s mother spoke to her about the suitors. She described their families, the work each boy was able to do to provide for a family. Gulnaz would shrug her shoulders. She had little interest in a man who would come home with hands calloused by metalwork or one who aspired to follow in the devout footsteps of her father, the murshid. She scowled at the proposition of a boy who was intent on becoming an army general. She had no use for a man who liked to shout orders all day long.

  Gulnaz’s mother grew impatient with her nay-saying. They had turned away too many families, and she was growing anxious.

  The tailor’s family didn’t think they stood a chance. They were nowhere near as well-to-do as others in town. Their eldest son, a young man of twenty years, had been blessed with handsome features but was soft-spoken and didn’t know what to do with his hands when he wasn’t holding a needle and thread. His mother had come alone twice already. When she came with her son, Gulnaz went outside the house to steal a glance through the living room window. The boy’s mother had her back to the cinched lace curtains and didn’t see Gulnaz’s emerald irises peering curiously through the dust-spackled pane. Gulnaz’s mother, on the other hand, was duly horrified to see her daughter’s face in the glass. She refilled the teacups for her guests, praying that they wouldn’t turn their heads and spot the onlooker. The boy sat at an angle, staring appropriately at the carpet before him and appearing like the well-mannered young man his mother promised he would be.

  He was actually fairly handsome, Gulnaz decided. She liked the softness in his voice and the way his fingers toyed with the teacup in his hands. He was gentle. He would not tell her what to be.