Gulnaz knew what people thought of her. As daughter of the powerful murshid, people had always treated her with cautious respect. And when they caught a glimpse of her green eyes, she could see them hesitate to take their next breath, as if she might have cursed the very air around them. Even as a young girl, her aunts and cousins had thrown accusing looks her way when things went wrong, as if it were her fault they’d oversalted the stew or tripped on a stone in the courtyard. No one else in the family had green eyes, which made them all the more striking. By the time she was two, the family had concluded she’d been born with a twisted form of the murshid’s powers, not the kind that drew people in hopes of blessings and good fortune, but the kind that could bring on a toothache or destroy a field of crops.
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.”