She preferred to find scraps of wood, but so did every other woman and child in Bamiyan, so the supply was scarce. More often than not she had to settle for the steaming pieces of fresh dung left by cows and goats, even dogs, in nearby fields. Gathering them into her basket, she was glad she’d thought to bring it along. Frequently, she found herself tucking the stinking, moist dung into the folds of her dress. The stench of it remained in her clothes, a fragrant reminder of her duties.
At home, she shaped the dung into flat discs and laid them out to dry in the sun before placing them just outside the family’s room. That done, Parween began preparing dinner. There was rice to clean and pick through; she had to remove the persistent mealy insects that often found their way into her food stores. Unless they were picked out before cooking, they provided a crunchy, foul-tasting accompaniment to the meal. And if her brothers were forced to spit out tainted rice, the fault would be Parween’s alone.
It had happened only once and their ire had been enough that she had sworn never to let it happen again.
Once she’d washed the rice, she pounded down meager pieces of mutton or chicken, when they were lucky enough to have it. Otherwise she sifted through beans to add to the rice. The cooking took hours, requiring constant stirring and attention. Her brothers, or sometimes Rahima, who still worked for the tailor, would bring home the fresh warm naan that they ate with every meal.
Each evening, when her two brothers arrived, Parween served them a sweet green tea that was the mainstay of their diet. Each tiny cup was filled with steaming liquid and five or six generous spoonfuls of sugar.
Once the men had had their fill of the food, Parween and her mother would fill their own plates with whatever was left. When dinner was done, it was Parween’s job to gather the dishes and tidy up the room.
She would pull out the sleeping pads and lay them around the room. If it was already dark outside, Parween would light a small lantern to help her find her way to the well. There she would draw up water to wash the metal dishes and pots. Only when her final chore had been completed could she make her way to her own sleeping pad and fall into a cherished slumber, where at last her time was her own.
With all of her responsibilities, Parween mercifully had little time to ponder her eventual marriage, yet she had caught a glimpse of her intended.
Raziq Khalid was actually her second cousin, and he lived with his family right in her own compound. He was young—maybe twenty-five, though Parween couldn’t be sure—and he was handsome, with brown hair and intense eyes so dark that they looked like bits of coal.
He was smart as well, and he worked in the bazaar, helping a merchant arrange his accounts and orders. Parween learned that he could read and write, not only Persian, but English too. His family had lived in Kabul, where opportunities for education had been plentiful, and he had gone to school long enough to learn more than most Afghans would ever know. His family had moved to Bamiyan after the Soviets left, when Kabul had been beset with fierce fighting among the warlords vying for power.
They had arrived the year before, and Uncle Abdullah’s cousin was Raziq’s mother, so the match was approved quickly. The marriage, however, wouldn’t actually take place until Parween reached the age of sixteen. At first she had been horrified at the idea of marriage, but once she actually saw Raziq she found herself curiously pleased.
Mariam was relentless in her teasing, however, and though Parween tried to maintain an indignant pose, more often than not, they collapsed together giggling as they wondered about her future husband.
In fact, Parween was reasonably certain that Mariam felt a twinge of envy, though she proclaimed loudly that she was happy for her friend. Mariam’s own match had not yet been arranged, and she frequently commented that she hoped for one only half as good.
“Who do you think my husband will be?” she said one day as they sat by the stream waiting for the clothes to dry. “We may have already seen him, you know.” She tugged at her veil.
“Perhaps you will marry the baker’s son,” Parween answered dreamily. “Maybe he has seen you buying naan and he is smitten with you.”
Mariam giggled in reply.
“Or perhaps he is the boy you were fighting the day we met.”
Mariam collapsed in laughter. “Ahh, that was quite a day. It was right after you came to Bamiyan, yes?”
“It was. And when I saw you on the road bashing the head of that surly boy, I knew I’d found a friend for life. As for your husband, whoever he may be, he will surely be handsome and brave, and he will love you as though he chose you himself.”
Mariam sighed. “Inshallah.”
Mariam was one of nine children and lived in a tiny house where there seemed never to be enough food, clothes, or money. She was never missed when she slipped off to Parween’s, and that was where she’d spent much of her childhood, alongside her dearest friend, almost another daughter to Rahima. She dreaded the thought that marriage would separate them but prayed she’d still be close by.
Before long their guessing games came to an end, and a match was made for Mariam. She was promised to an old man in the distant village of Mashaal. The news left the girls devastated. They clung to each other, mourning for Mariam’s future, crying and making promises of eternal friendship.
“Please don’t forget me,” Mariam wailed, tears running down her cheeks.
“Never, my friend,” Parween swore.
They pledged to somehow get messages to each other, though they knew in their hearts it was a promise just waiting to be broken.
When the time came for Mariam to leave Bamiyan, Parween caught sight of her friend’s betrothed as he arrived to collect her. Her heart sank and she ached for her dear friend, as her new husband—a wizened, toothless, filthy old man—stood in Mariam’s home, scratching at his greasy beard while looking her over.
Mariam withered under his gaze.
She would be his third and youngest wife, and—if things turned out as everyone hoped—she would be the first to produce a son. Until then, she would be a veritable slave, a mother to his five daughters, one of whom was fifteen, just like Mariam. Only a son would raise her from her status as the lowliest woman in the house.
Because Mariam was to be the third wife, the wedding celebration consisted only of a small dinner for family. Parween, desperate to see her friend one last time, slipped unseen into the women’s room where Mariam sat with her sisters. Though for once the women’s food was plentiful, Mariam was unable to eat. She turned her tear-stained face to Parween.
“Have you seen him?” she cried, her brown eyes red.
Parween held her hand. “Yes,” she replied, holding back her own tears. “But, inshallah, he is kind and will be good to you.”
That didn’t seem likely, she knew, but she didn’t know what else she could say to ease her friend’s fears. Instead, she held Mariam close and stroked her hair.
“Tars na dori,” she whispered. “Do not be afraid.” She repeated it again and again until Mariam drifted off into a restless sleep, and Parween slipped away.
Early the next morning, Mariam was taken from the women’s room and placed astride the old man’s donkey for the journey to her new home. Parween ran to her and slipped something into her hand.
It was the old tube of lipstick she’d kept after her sister’s wedding. They’d run the bright red wax over their lips so many times, there was only a small fragment of color left in the treasured tube.
“So you will remember me,” Parween whispered.
Mariam gripped Parween’s hand and held it to her damp cheek. “I will always carry you in my heart, my friend.”
And with that, she was gone. Tears streaming down her face, Parween watched until her best friend’s slight figure receded into the horizon.
10
Parween was married shortly before her sixteenth birthday.
Uncle Abdullah, proud to have made such a good match for his niece, invited not just family but friends and even
neighbors to the joyous celebration. Parween had tried to get a message to Mariam, but there had been no word in reply and no way to know if she could somehow get to Bamiyan for the wedding.
Still, more than a hundred people crowded into the small compound.
Parween’s mother and aunt prepared her for the festivities. She sat regally but nervously on an embroidered pad—a bride pad. She was catered to and surrounded by all the female guests, who busied themselves applying her makeup in heavy colors and in a dramatic fashion. The kohl that lined her eyes was the deepest black, the lipstick as red as the brightest summer poppies, and the powder on her face was whiter than the snow that capped the Hindu Kush. When they were done, the women stepped back to admire their handiwork.
“Ahh,” they murmured all at once. “You are a beautiful bride.”
Parween let a smile settle on her colored lips as she peered at her reflection. She hadn’t worn lipstick in the year since Mariam had left. Though her mother had a small tube, there’d been no joy in it without her dearest friend. Oh, if only Mariam were here, she thought, to share my new lipstick and to see me in my gauzy white dress and white silk veil. She closed her eyes and thought of her friend.
Finally, she was led from the women’s room for the ceremony. She stood nervously by Raziq’s side, surrounded by Uncle Abdullah and her brothers as the mullah read the prayers. Once the prayers and recitations were done, the Koran was passed over their bowed heads and a shawl was draped over them. A shiny mirror was held under the shawl, allowing the husband and wife their first married glimpse of each other. Raziq smiled broadly into the mirror; Parween, nervous still, covered her smile with her hand and looked away.
The Koran was passed to Raziq, who read a short verse. Then the shawl was pulled free, and Parween and Raziq were proclaimed husband and wife.
Parween turned to look at Raziq and there he stood, staring her full in the face. Stunned, she turned away. No man had ever looked straight at her before—at least not since she was a child—but he was her husband now.
Husband!
A thrill passed through her. She almost couldn’t believe it. She let her gaze drift downward and felt a little giddy as her stomach leaped.
The meal began and she sat next to him, but despite all of the wonderful food that had been prepared, she couldn’t bring herself to eat. Her stomach was still dancing with excitement.
“So, my beautiful wife,” he said. “No appetite today, of all days?” He grinned broadly and touched her hand.
Parween’s heart raced. He had called her beautiful. Was she? Did he really think so?
Today is what paradise must be like, she decided. She gazed at him again and this time her heart soared.
“You must eat, Parween,” he said gently yet playfully. “I want a strong wife, not a helpless one.” He smiled, and Parween dutifully picked at her food.
“My husband—” She hesitated, almost afraid to speak to this stranger with the gentle eyes. “I am strong, and even if I eat little today, I will not disappoint you.” She looked away then, and Raziq caressed her hand.
“My dear Parween, I have no fear of that. I hope not to disappoint you. You see, I am a bit nervous today as well. I have never been this close to a woman, and though we are strangers to one another, we are now husband and wife.” He took a slow breath. “In time, we will grow comfortable together. Today, let us just be happy.”
Parween felt a smile creep across her face once again.
Once the bridal meal was finished, the women prepared to escort her back to the women’s room, where the wedding celebration had already started. She turned and smiled shyly at Raziq before she let herself be led away.
To her chagrin, Parween discovered that she would be a silent observer at her own wedding and would not be allowed to celebrate.
“I should be dancing, shouldn’t I?” she asked, and this was met by shrieks of laughter. “Can’t I join in?” Her mother lovingly chastised her for paying so little attention during their prepatory talks. A married woman, she explained, had to show her modesty and obedience.
Parween sighed. It had been more fun attending to the bride than being the bride.
The raucous party went on for hours and eventually Parween drifted off to sleep amidst the noise and the festivities. In the morning’s first light, guests started to trickle away, and she was nudged awake to join her husband in his house, another small room in the compound. She knew this was extraordinarily lucky. While most women were torn from their families, the fact that he was a cousin meant that she would be able to stay within the same familiar walls.
Still, she found herself terrified at the thought of what was to come next.
Once they were alone, Raziq proved as kind and thoughtful as he was handsome. “You are trembling, but do not be afraid,” he said as he lifted away her dress. “You are my wife, and this is the way of husbands and wives.” He reached out and touched her bare skin. A rush of electricity flooded her body and her heart fluttered with his closeness and his touch.
He gently eased Parween into what had been described to her as the “marriage act,” and after a moment of pain, he went slowly and she didn’t feel the embarrassment she’d expected. After hearing so many bawdy stories describing the miseries of sex, she was unprepared for Raziq’s tender caresses and murmurs of satisfaction. Perhaps, she mused silently, if she became pregnant with a son, it would all be worth it.
As Parween and Raziq settled into married life, she was surprised to find that she actually had fewer chores than before. Until they had children, her responsibilities would be limited to Raziq and their animals—the lone donkey, two goats, and a few skeletal chickens. Life would be far simpler than what she was used to.
She found it easy to talk to Raziq, and when she finally shared with him that she knew her numbers and she could actually count, he smiled with pleasure.
“Uncle Abdullah told me that you were smart, and I’m pleased to see that he was right. Do you want to learn more?” He folded his arms over the book he held. “Then, someday, you will be able to teach our children.”
Parween could hardly believe her ears. To learn—it was her dream.
“I speak some Inglisi,” Raziq continued, “and I have no doubt that someday it will be useful in some way. Would you like to learn to speak Inglisi?”
Her jaw went slack; she was speechless. Without warning, she flung herself at Raziq and kissed his cheek.
“Oh yes, my dear husband, oh yes!”
That evening, their small house became a classroom. Raziq decided to start with numbers, since it had been years since Parween had counted anything besides her chickens or goats.
“Yak, do, say, char, pinge…” The numbers rolled easily from her tongue and once Raziq was confident that she knew them well, he translated them to English. This was far more difficult and they practiced over and over. For all of the difficulty, however, she was an eager student.
Once she’d mastered the numbers, Raziq guided her through common phrases, and before long, they were exchanging entire sentences. “I am from Bamiyan. My husband’s name is Raziq.” She always giggled when she said that.
“My wife is named Parween,” he responded with a wink.
In the evenings, he taught her to read and write the elegant Persian script of Afghanistan. She struggled with the ornate letters as Raziq leaned over her shoulder, the smell of shaved pencils and worn erasers on his hands.
“Try again,” he said gently whenever she faltered. His patience was matched by Parween’s persistence and before long, she could identify letters, then whole words and sentences. To her delight, she discovered all the things there were to read. Raziq brought home books and newspapers and Parween devoured them, reading aloud so that Raziq could hear her pronunciation of the words.
Each day, Parween had plenty of opportunity to read as she made the solitary trek through the bazaar to deliver a warm lunch to Raziq. An entire world opened up for her as she read signs on storefr
onts and labels on packages. She especially liked the sign in the grimy front window of the bakery that proclaimed in scrolling Persian script BEST BREAD IN BAMIYAN. The scrolled lettering was so delicate, so appealing, that she couldn’t resist going in. The fresh bread she purchased there was wrapped in old newspaper, which gave her something else to read.
Friday was Islam’s holy day and Raziq’s only day off, and they often hiked into the nearby mountains to picnic by a cool stream. They would pick the sweet mulberries that grew there and add those to their feast. After lunch, Raziq would lie against a towering tree and read to Parween. Sometimes, they would read together, practicing their lessons.
“Someday, I will have my own business,” Raziq declared. “I could do numbers and accounts from a little office in the bazaar and have merchants come to me with their books. What do you think? Would you like to be married to a successful businessman?”
“You are successful already, and no matter your job, I am happy to be your wife.” She sat closer to him, touched his arm, and smiled.
One afternoon, Parween brought Raziq to the Buddhas. She enjoyed his amazement as she scurried up the mountainside and disappeared into the highest room above the larger of the two statues. He struggled just to keep up with her, and her face shone as she pointed out the bazaar and their own home, and then the Hindu Kush mountain range in the distance. Since they were alone, looking out over Bamiyan, Raziq pulled Parween close.
“I love you, my dear wife,” he whispered almost conspiratorially. “How lucky I am that Allah chose you for me.” Parween never tired of hearing his words. Raziq was more than just her beloved husband, she realized. He was her beloved friend.
Almost exactly a year after their wedding, Parween discovered that she was pregnant. Her monthly bleeding stopped and she consulted her mother, who confirmed that it was a sure sign of pregnancy. That evening, Parween prepared a special dinner for Raziq, even slaughtering one of their scrawny chickens for the meal.
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