“Let’s step outside and I will tell you.”
Zeba was glad to be back out of the stifling room.
“That’s where I’ve treated some people who have come to me with very serious problems of mind and soul,” he explained, his voice rich with pride. “This shrine is stronger than any medication, when one believes.”
“What kind of treatments do you provide?” Yusuf asked, nearly choking on the word “treatments.”
Too many people, Yusuf thought, put faith in talismans, trinkets, and superstitions. But Yusuf was also hesitant to criticize. He’d suffered breathing problems as a child. When he was two years old, he’d had an attack so severe that his mother and father had feared he wouldn’t survive. His mother had taken him to a doctor, but the elixir he’d prescribed had done very little for Yusuf. His mother, watching her son’s stomach heave and chest rattle with cough, had then taken him to a shrine in Kabul where a mullah had prayed for him and another man had written a talisman. It was a tiny folded piece of paper wrapped in cloth that Yusuf’s mother had pinned to the inside of his shirt, just over his left chest. In two days, his shortness of breath had resolved, and in the following years, his asthmatic attacks came much less often and were much milder. His mother had been convinced that the talisman, not the doctor’s prescription, had done the trick. Yusuf, having heard the story a few dozen times growing up, had accepted it as truth.
“Our prayers are more powerful than any tool, any drug, any weapon. I pray for the poor individuals who come here to Hazrat Rahman’s tomb and those who tie their wishes to the fence. God is listening, always, to those who believe.”
“And what’s over there?” Yusuf said, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand. He pointed to the structure Zeba had noticed from inside the mausoleum. He could make out what looked like a row of honeycomb cells, open to the fenced-in courtyard.
Zeba walked to a large rock and sat on it. She let her head fall toward her knees. The prison guard eyed her with suspicion but let her be.
“That’s where I treat some of the more serious cases,” the mullah said with his head cocked to the side. “Not everyone’s illness can be cured with a simple prayer. Sometimes, it takes a period of cleansing the mind and body. Sometimes those who are ill need to be confined in a place of solitude where their energies can be channeled into conquering their maladies. This is that place.”
“You have people in there?”
“I do,” Mullah Habibullah stated. “Sometimes they wander through the yard. Most of the time they sleep or talk to themselves.”
“What about food and drink?” Yusuf asked. The prosecutor listened in. He was familiar with this shrine, though he’d never been here personally.
“They are fed bread and black pepper along with plenty of water. These are the foods that we’ve learned treat the ailments of the mind. Other foods can poison the healing process or delay their recovery. This is the best way to get true relief.”
“Bread and black pepper? That’s all they’re fed?” Yusuf was incredulous. How could such a place actually exist? There were hospitals in every major city, and the nearest one was not that far from this shrine. Why wouldn’t families take their loved ones there instead?”
“For every patient those hospitals treat, there are a hundred more waiting to be seen. You’re skeptical of this idea, but that’s only because you haven’t seen what this place can do. I assure you, if you speak to the patients who have passed through this shrine, they will tell you how grateful they are for having been cured here.”
Yusuf bit his tongue.
“Mullah-sahib,” the prosecutor said politely. “I’m very glad to have seen the shrine and hear about your work. The judge spoke highly of your skills and we are eager to hear your assessment of this woman. What do you need to do to evaluate her?”
“Yes, the woman.” The mullah turned his attention to Zeba, who looked up at the circle of men standing a few feet away. “Let me speak with her. Let us go inside, and my son will serve you a cup of tea to revive your spirits.”
Yusuf stole one last glance at the cells beyond the fence, wondering if he could spy one of the patients the mullah was treating, but there was not even a shadow of movement. The mullah could be blowing smoke, he thought. There might not be a single soul in those cells.
They went into the building where a burgundy carpet with an elephant foot motif lay on the floor. There were two floor cushions with wool-covered pillows resting against the wall.
The prosecutor took a seat on the cushions and a boy, no more than ten years old, came in from a back room with a silver tray holding four small cups of tea. He placed a cup before each of the lawyers and took the other two to the plastic table and chairs outside where Mullah Habibullah sat facing Zeba. The prison guard stood a few feet away, talking quietly on his mobile phone.
“What do you think of this place?” the mullah asked.
Zeba refused to meet his gaze. She stared at the branches of the acacia tree. The mullah’s eyebrows lifted with interest.
“What crime have you been arrested for?” The mullah’s eyes were soft and reassuring.
Zeba’s voice was raspy. The dusty air had dried her throat, but she refused to take even a sip of the steamy amber tea.
“What do you want from me?”
Mullah Habibullah was taken aback by her acidic tone. Not even the most insane patient had been so insolent.
“Why do you ask?”
Zeba looked away, as if she’d already lost interest in her own question.
“Why are you in jail?” the mullah repeated.
“He must have told you.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
Zeba smirked.
“Because God intended for me to go to prison and I am His disciple. Because some men can talk from both corners of their mouths at the same time. Because my lawyer thinks he is going to save my life when my mother and grandfather, with all the tricks they have between them, could not do a thing for me.”
The mullah’s eyes narrowed.
“Your mother and your grandfather?”
He leaned in closer, staring so hard that Zeba turned in her chair and kept her shoulder toward him. She lowered her eyes.
“Who is your grandfather?”
“My grandfather, Safatullah, is a murshid. He’s not known here. This is too far from our village.”
The mullah nodded slowly.
“I see,” he whispered. He stood and wandered a few steps away. His back was to Zeba as he stared at the spreading branches of the acacia tree.
“They say you killed your husband. Did you?”
Zeba laughed.
“Everyone wants to talk about my dead husband — except me.”
“Was he a bad man?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about him. Listen, Mullah-sahib, I’m not crazy. There’s no reason for me to be here. If they think I should be in prison, then send me back there, please.”
The mullah cleared his throat before turning again to face Zeba.
“You must know what happened to your husband. Have you told your family anything? Your. . your mother or your grandfather?”
“There’s nothing for me to say. They have their police reports.”
“I heard as much,” he said, returning to his chair. He pulled it a few inches closer to Zeba before settling in. Zeba tried not to recoil too visibly at his closeness. Yusuf and the prosecutor were just inside, she reminded herself.
“What has your family said about this? Do they believe in your innocence?”
“My mother. .” Zeba began. She was surprised to hear her voice quaver with emotion at the mention of her mother. “She has always believed in my innocence. There is no mother like her. My brother found me a lawyer. They are my family. I have no one else.”