Najiba?
I stifled the cry in my throat.
“Najiba is my dear daughter, a wonderful student and a giving sister. I’ve prayed for her, as I’ve prayed for all my children, that in her naseeb is a good person, a life partner who will honor her and our family.”
“You are a loving mother, KokoGul. Your children are fortunate to have you and Agha-sahib as parents.”
It was Najiba they wanted, not me.
CHAPTER 10
Fereiba
KOKOGUL HAD BEEN RIGHT. OUR NEIGHBORS WERE COURTING MY sister Najiba. When they’d left, I’d returned to my room. Najiba found me sitting on the floor wearing nothing but a slip. Scraps of fabric lay scattered on my lap, at my feet, behind me; I’d cut my shift dress into a thousand pieces. My sister wrenched the scissors from my hands and yelled for KokoGul. KokoGul suspiciously surveyed the scene from the doorway, conjuring her own theories as to what had caused my unraveling.
“Take the scissors and leave her be. I don’t know what the meaning of this is, Fereiba, but we’ve no room for madness or destruction in this house.”
Najiba looked concerned. I waited for them to leave. I could hear KokoGul whispering to Najiba in the hallway.
“She had a suitor and look what happened to him. Jealousy curdles the soul like a drop of vinegar in milk. Bibi Shireen knows Fereiba’s story as well as the other neighbors do. People want their sons to marry respectable girls. Fereiba is your father’s daughter and I mean no ill when I say this, but people see her as an orphan, as a girl without a family. She lost the only chance she had to marry into an esteemed family.”
“But she has a family, Madar-jan,” Najiba whispered in soft protest.
“It’s not the same, my darling,” KokoGul clucked. “I’ve tried to make her feel as much my daughter as you and your sisters, but she’s kept herself apart. She’s more comfortable doing the housework than being with us.”
Throughout my life, KokoGul had given me just enough to believe this could be true. There were days she hugged me as she hugged my sisters, stroked my hair as if I were one of her own. There were days we sat together doing housework and laughing at something Mauriya had done. There were just enough of those moments to make me wonder if it was I who had kept myself at arm’s length from the rest of the family.
I knew my beloved must have been devastated. I wondered if he even knew what his mother had done. It was not unheard of for mothers to make decisions on behalf of their reckless sons. Boys thought only of today. Mothers considered tomorrows. But my beloved was not most boys. He was an intellectual. He was my patient confidante, my keeper of secrets. He and I would have to fight to be together. I realized I should have expected nothing less.
Bibi Shireen had taken from us our budding affair. She’d denied the universe its chance to redeem itself for stripping me of a loving mother and father and of a childhood equal to that of my siblings. She had smiled demurely, allowed me to wait on her, and then pulled the world out from under my feet. Fueled by the flame of adolescent emotion, I fell deeper in love with the man yet unseen.
I SAT UNDER THE MULBERRY TREE FOR DAYS, BUT HE DID NOT come. I stayed there for hours at a time, the coils of the bark imprinted on my back, proof of my devotion. Bibi Shireen returned to the house for a second and third visit. She was persistent and rushed, wanting KokoGul to agree to give Najiba’s hand as if a clock were ticking. Her doggedness told me that my beloved knew nothing of her doings. Bibi Shireen had tasted the rumors about me and was hoping to save her son from marriage to Kabul’s black maiden, the orphaned daughter-servant next door.
Najiba tiptoed around me. In my clearer moments, I pitied her. What should have been a joyful, exciting courtship had been spoiled by my rancorous behavior. I spoke few words and did not smile much. I was preoccupied with finding a way to communicate with my beloved without compromising our secret.
By the evening light, I wrote out Rabia Balkhi’s blood-soaked poem on a piece of paper. I curled the paper into a ball and snuck out of my room at nightfall, winding my way past the cherry trees, under the grapevines, and into the nesting of mulberry trees against the wall. I paused and, hearing nothing but the distant croaking of a frog, I threw the balled paper over the wall where I hoped my secret love would find it and realize my devotion was unwavering despite those trying to keep us apart.
For days, I searched for scraps of paper on my side of the wall. I imagined the different ways he might send a message to me.
I KEPT DREAMING EVEN AS KOKOGUL USED THE ROLLS OF GOLD tulle and the silver tray she’d kept in her drawer to make Najiba’s shirnee. I kept dreaming even on the day she placed the tray before an elated Bibi Shireen in our humble living room, my sisters looking on with quiet excitement as Najiba entered the room. She looked demure and kept her eyes to the ground as Bibi Shireen kissed her cheeks and embraced her tightly. She kissed her mother-in-law’s hand.
I waited for him to protest but he said nothing. I realized that he would make no valiant motion to save us. This was not the love story I’d imagined.
How could I not stare at my sister’s fiancé? After days of waiting alone in the orchard, how could I not gawk at the man I now believed had duped me into thinking I meant something? He was handsome, actually, which made everything worse. He had chestnut-colored hair and soft, poetic eyes. In his wide-lapel coffee-colored suit, he looked confident—but not overly so. His eyes moved around the room, lighting on guests and relatives just long enough to acknowledge their presence. Not once—I noticed because I’d made it my mission to—did his eyes fall on me or Najiba. I was quite creative in interpreting this observation.
Finally, there was no wall between us. This was what we’d wanted, wasn’t it? He kissed my father’s hands and KokoGul’s hands. My father welcomed him with a hearty embrace. Returning to his mother’s side, he had looked up and given his bride a shy smile. I watched it all. I even went around the room offering colorful foiled chocolates to the few people who’d attended. Bibi Shireen’s sister. Bibi Shireen’s husband. My aunts and uncles.
KokoGul, wary of my erratic behavior, had asked Sultana to serve tea to the guests. She might have been right not to trust me with boiling water.
“Najiba,” Bibi Shireen rejoiced tearfully. “From this day on, you are my daughter. You have two mothers, my beautiful girl. You have brought great happiness to our family!”
My beloved. My face reddened to think of our secret conversations. I felt small and stupid. He’d probably seen my love poem and shaken his head at my foolishness. He’d probably laughed that he’d let things go so far between us or maybe he was embarrassed that he’d ever considered me, the motherless stepsister, for a wife.
I wanted to run out of the room. I wanted to tear at the tulle and create such a scene that I would finally be heard. I wanted to spill my pain on the walls.
I stared on blankly, the slow realization that KokoGul had been right settling in my heart. Jealousy had curdled the love I had for my sister. It was her moment of happiness, a union between her and a handsome young man from a loving family and I could not share in her celebration because of the dark thoughts thundering in my mind.
One thought echoed louder than all the others: Najiba now had two mothers and I had none.
CHAPTER 11
Fereiba
HIS NAME WAS HAMEED. SINCE HE WAS NO LONGER MINE, I COULD say it without blushing. In a way, I was glad I’d never spoken his name. To me, it was nothing but a hollow string of sounds. Nor did his face affect me. I had no memory of his eyes and had never seen his hands. In so many ways, Hameed was a stranger to me.
The scent of the orchard, the sound of his voice, his approaching footsteps—those were the triggers for both my heartache and my rage.
I would never be so blind again.
The newly engaged couple spent time together, walking through the neighborhood in full view of others with their shy smiles and quiet conversations. Najiba blushed when she returned home. I knew
why. I could have told her about our private conversations and the empty promises her fiancé had made to me, but I bit my tongue. It was the noble thing to do, I told myself.
For weeks, I watched the couple come and go. KokoGul beamed and busied herself with the wedding arrangements. There were many busy afternoons spent with Bibi Shireen. They were just as taken with each other as the new bride and groom were. I kept my feelings to myself after that day. KokoGul excused my behavior after the shirnee, uninterested in exploring the matter further. She said nothing to my father about the dress I’d shredded.
I ran into Hameed in the courtyard once. He was waiting for Najiba, who’d run into the house to get a scarf. It was fall and the chill of the night air carried into the early morning. The house door slammed behind me. Hameed turned, his boyish smile evaporating at the sight of me. I could see the tension in his legs and arms. Every fiber of his body wanted to escape, our courtyard suddenly feeling like a small cage. He might as well have been inches from my face.
He muttered a faint greeting and turned to the side, his hands disappearing deep into his pockets.
I hesitated, wanting to retreat with the basket of wet clothes and return to the house, but the look on his face gave me strength. His eyes looked away in shame and his shoulders were pulled together, as if he were trying to fold himself in half.
“Salaam,” I said loudly and clearly. My voice surprised me. Hameed winced.
I walked past him slowly, aware of each breath and counting the steps between us. I made my way to the side of the house, still visible to him, where I began to hang the damp laundry from a clothesline. I snapped the moisture from each piece before draping it over the rope. It would be hours before anything would dry in the brisk air.
I could see Hameed fidget from the corner of my eye.
I wanted to hate him.
“Fereiba . . .” His voice was nothing more than a whisper.
My back was turned to him. I closed my eyes. Two drops of water fell from my father’s damp shirt and landed on my toes.
“These things are family matters. Nothing was ever really in my hands.”
I listened.
“And now I just want you to be happy. For the sake of the families, let’s put it behind us.”
His tone was dismissive. My shame boiled into indignation.
“Put what behind us?” I snapped.
“Do you really want to be this way? You know I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”
“I don’t know anything about you. Najiba knows even less.”
He huffed in frustration. I turned around and met his narrowed eyes.
“You know if you say anything, it would look very bad for you,” he seethed.
“If I say anything? Is that what worries you? I have no interest in spoiling my sister’s life,” I said, though it was a half-truth. “I pity her for winding up with a boy who pretends to hang his heart from a tree.”
“You’ve no idea what you’re saying.”
“Don’t I?”
He cast a quick glance over his shoulder and took two steps toward me.
“I told my mother to ask for the hand of the eldest daughter next door. Don’t think I wasn’t surprised when she came back having engaged me to Najiba. Anything I said after that would have brought shame on both our families.”
I stared at him blankly. There are truths and lies and there are things in between, murky waters where light gets bent and broken. I did not know his face well enough to decide if he meant those words. I could not read the movements of his lips or the shadows behind his eyes. Did he want me to understand or did he want me to believe? And if I believed, would that be enough to change the rest of our story?
Najiba emerged with one of Sultana’s scarves knotted at her neck. Her face broke out in a smile. She was no longer the bashful girl with eyes glued to the floor. She’d grown comfortable around Hameed and could walk at his side without feeling indecent. I could see the thrill on her face.
Hameed and I never spoke of our brief past again. I would never know if he truly felt anything more than a playful interest in me or if he’d been baited into a marriage he never wanted. The impropriety of our days in the orchard lingered and we rarely let our eyes meet. Najiba never sensed the shadow between us. If she did, she said nothing about it. I might have done the same if I were in her place.
IN THE DAYS AFTER MY SISTER’S WEDDING, KOKOGUL WAS AGAIN visited by Bibi Shireen and her sister. This time it was Bibi Shireen’s sister, Khanum Zeba, who came in search of a bride.
Khanum Zeba came for me.
KokoGul had laughed. I knew my stepmother well enough that it did not bother me. I was not ready for marriage, not because I was too young or immature but because my heart was hardened. I’d seen the illusion of love but never the real thing. I had no reason to believe in love’s existence.
But Khanum Zeba was the kindest woman I’d ever met. I imagined my mother would have loved her. As I stared at the intricate pattern of our living room rug, I heard her say things about me that had never before been said.
She is everything I want for my son.
The first time I saw her, I knew she was meant for our family.
I had to look at her. Her words emboldened me to raise my eyes and meet hers. The skin around her clear, brown eyes crinkled as she serenely explained to a very curious KokoGul why she chose me.
I dreamed once . . . years ago . . . of my son’s wedding day. When I woke, I remembered every detail of it as if I’d attended the celebration the night before, including the face of the bride when we lifted the green veil for the nikkah. When I came to your home and met Fereiba, I recognized her.
Good for your son, KokoGul quipped, that you didn’t dream of the baker’s daughter—her skin’s as dark as the bread he burns.
While others hid their smirks with a hand over their mouths, KokoGul’s comments fell flat on my future mother-in-law.
Your daughter is a special girl. She deserves a life full of roshanee, light as warm as she is.
Khanum Zeba’s words were a bright, glowing moon hanging low in the night sky. KokoGul was aghast and ordered me out of the room, but Khanum Zeba walked over and placed her hand over mine, steadying my nerves.
I wanted to believe.
CHAPTER 12
Fereiba
IN MY YEARS IN AFGHANISTAN, I SURVIVED MANY REGIME changes, starting with my mother’s death and my father’s remarriage. Some changes had been harder to swallow than others.
Khanum Zeba became Khala Zeba to me, once KokoGul placed my shirnee before her and agreed to give my hand in marriage. I’d never before seen her son, Mahmood. In a way, it was Khanum Zeba I had fallen for. Her son was merely her outstretched hand. But going through the motions of life together, Mahmood and I slowly became husband and wife.
When I told Khanum Zeba that I wanted to be a teacher, she insisted I pursue it. She’d been a teacher as well. I enrolled in a teaching program and worked my way through the courses with the support of a family I was barely a part of. My father and KokoGul were content to see me attend the classes.
“School, school, school. Your husband is going to buy you chalk and notebooks for gifts if you don’t make it clear you like things besides a classroom,” KokoGul teased.
MAHMOOD AND I WERE MARRIED IN 1979, A YEAR AFTER OUR ENGAGEMENT and just as the Soviet Union’s first baby-faced soldiers landed their heavy boots on Afghan soil. Having proudly earned a teaching degree in two years, I woke with fresh energy every day and took my place at the head of an elementary school classroom. The students were as eager as flightless, freshly hatched birds in a nest. It was for me to nurture their open minds, to teach them the words and numbers and ideas that would spread their wings.
Just two months after our wedding, Mahmood received word that his uncle’s family, including four children, had been killed by Soviet rockets in the Panjshir Valley. We spent the next few months as newlyweds in mourning. I could hear Mahmood’s aunts and
cousins cluck their tongues at the incongruous sight of a new bride in a somber fateha, where the visitors came to pay their respects to the family of the deceased.
It’s just as they warned, came the whispers. She carries the curse of bad fortune with her . . . and now she’s among us. Her own family cautioned . . .
Word of the rumors got back to us. My mother-in-law, Khala Zeba, scoffed at them. She said nothing when Mahmood made the painful decision to distance himself from the gossips in the family. He sheltered me from relatives with suspicious eyes and those who kept their children away out of fear.
Idle women are dangerous. Better you stick with your colleagues, women who busy themselves with home and work, like yourself. Don’t mind the noise from the henhouse, Mahmood would caution.
I was relieved and surprised to have my husband reject such slander. My shoulders straightened to hear him defend me, especially to his own family. Mahmood and Khala Zeba reminded me of my grandfather, whose moral strength and unrelenting love often deflected KokoGul’s hurtful words. Mahmood made the ground beneath me stop quaking. He gave me room and reason to love him.
I busied myself as he suggested. I spent an occasional afternoon with another teacher I’d befriended and immersed myself in teaching. I expected a lot from my students and they worked hard. I knew I wasn’t as stern as the other teachers, but I vied for their affection as much as they did for mine.
I cared about what I wore then and did my best to dress smartly. In my father’s home, I’d dressed more like a girl—jeans, calf-length skirts, and collared T-shirts. In my new home, I dressed more like a woman—pencil skirts, ruffled blouses, buckled pumps, and always a shoulder bag. With Mahmood, I had my own household and was free to decide how my salary would be spent. I wasn’t extravagant, just stylish enough to make my husband beam when we left the house for a gathering or to visit relatives. He looked at me as if I, too, gave him room and reason to love.
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