‘It is written on her forehead that it is time for her to leave this house,’ said Bibi Gul to anyone who wanted to listen. As the Taliban did not allow women to work at all she hadn’t even bothered to ask whether Wakil would allow it.
She asked Wakil to come in person. Usually a marriage is arranged through the parents, but as this husband was nearing fifty, she wanted to see him with her own eyes. Wakil drove an articulated lorry and was away for days at a time. He dispatched his sister once again, then the brother, once again the sister, and the engagement dragged out.
Then came September 11 and Sultan moved sisters and children once more to Pakistan, to shelter from the bombs he knew would drop. That was when Wakil arrived.
‘We’ll have to talk about it when things return to normal,’ said Sultan.
When the Taliban were driven out of Kabul two months later, Wakil returned. The schools had not yet opened so Bibi Gul never thought of asking whether he would allow Shakila to work.
From the corner behind the stove Shakila follows closely the progress of her destiny and the date of her wedding. The four on the cushions decide everything before the two newly engaged have even had time to give each other the once-over.
Wakil peeps at Shakila. She looks straight ahead, at the wall, into nothing.
‘I am glad I found her,’ he says addressing himself to Sultan, but looking at his fiancée.
The curfew is about to start, and the two men hasten out into the dark. They leave behind two married-off women. They continue to stare into space. Not even when the men bid farewell did they look up. Bulbula heaves herself up and sighs; it’s not her turn yet. It will take years before Rasul scrapes together enough money to pay for the wedding. She appears not to care. She puts a few more sticks of firewood in the oven. No one pesters her with questions; she’s just a presence, as always, until she shuffles out of the room to see to her duties, the washing up and the swill bucket.
Shakila blushes when all the sisters throw themselves over her.
‘Three weeks! You’ll have to hurry.’
‘I’ll never make it,’ she moans. The bridal dress material has already been chosen and is awaiting delivery to the dressmaker. But what about the outfit, the linen, the crockery? Wakil is a widower, so most of it he’ll already have, but regardless, the bride must bring something to the marriage.
Shakila is slightly disgruntled. ‘He’s short, I like tall men,’ she tells her sisters. ‘He’s bald, and he might be a few years younger,’ she says and pouts. ‘What if he’s a bully, what if he’s unkind, what if he won’t let me go out?’ she wonders. Her sisters say nothing and think the same gloomy thoughts. ‘What if he won’t let me visit you, what if he beats me?’
Shakila and the sisters view the marriage in an increasingly dismal light, until Bibi Gul tells them to shut up. ‘He’s a good husband for you,’ she insists.
Two days after the agreement has been signed, Shakila’s sister Mariam arranges a party for the engaged couple. Mariam is twenty-nine and has been married twice. Her first husband was killed during the civil war. Her fifth child is due any moment.
Mariam has laid a long cloth on the floor in the sitting room. Shakila and Wakil sit at one end. Neither Bibi Gul nor Sultan is present. As long as the older members of the family can see them there must be no physical contact. But now, surrounded by younger siblings, they talk together in low voices, hardly aware of the others, who are desperately trying to snatch a few fragments of the conversation.
It is not an especially loving conversation. On the whole Shakila talks to the air. According to custom she must not make eye contact with her fiancé before the wedding; he on the other hand looks at her all the time.
‘I miss you. I can hardly wait two weeks, before you are mine,’ he says. Shakila blushes but keeps on staring into space.
‘I can’t sleep at night, I think of you,’ he continues. No reaction from Shakila. ‘What do you say to that?’ he asks.
Shakila goes on eating.
‘Imagine, when we’re married, and you’ve made my supper when I come home. You’ll always be there, waiting for me,’ Wakil dreams on. ‘I’ll never be alone again.’
Shakila holds her tongue, but then conjures up enough courage to ask if he will allow her to continue to work when they are married. Wakil says yes, but Shakila does not trust him. He might change his mind as soon as they are married. But he assures her that if working makes her happy, that’s OK by him. In addition, of course, to looking after the children and the house.
He takes off his hat, the brown pakol, which adherents of the murdered Northern Alliance leader Ahmed Shah Massoud wear.
‘That makes you look ugly,’ Shakila says cheekily. ‘You’re bald.’
Now it’s Wakil’s turn to feel embarrassed. He does not answer his fiancée’s insults, but leads the conversation on to safer ground. Shakila has spent the day in the Kabul markets buying things she needs for the wedding and presents for all the relations, hers and her husband’s. Wakil will dole out the presents, as a gesture to her family who have given her away. He pays and she buys: pots and pans, cutlery, linen, towels, and fabric for tunics for him and Rasul. She has promised Rasul, Bulbula’s fiancé, that he can choose his own colour. She talks about her shopping, and he asks the colour of the material.
‘One blue and one brown,’ answers Shakila.
‘Which one is for me?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know, Rasul can choose first.’
‘What?’ exclaims Wakil. ‘Why? I should choose first, I’m your husband.’
‘OK, you choose first,’ answers Shakila. ‘But they are both nice,’ she says and stares ahead.
Wakil lights a cigarette. ‘I don’t like smoke,’ says Shakila. ‘I don’t like people who smoke. If you smoke I don’t like you either.’
Shakila has raised her voice and everyone hears her insult.
‘It’s difficult to stop, now that I’ve started,’ Wakil says sheepishly.
‘It smells,’ Shakila continues.
‘You should be more polite,’ says Wakil. Shakila says nothing.
‘And you must cover yourself. It is a woman’s duty to wear the burka. Do as you like but if you don’t wear the burka you’ll make me very unhappy. And do you want to make me unhappy?’ Wakil asks, threateningly.
‘But if Kabul has changed and women start wearing modern clothes, then I will too,’ says Shakila.
‘You will not wear modern clothes. Do you want to make me unhappy?’
Shakila does not answer.
Wakil takes a few passport photos out of his wallet, looks at them and gives one to Shakila. ‘This one is for you and I want you to wear it next to your heart,’ he says. Shakila keeps a straight face, and reluctantly accepts the photo.
Wakil has to leave. It is just before curfew. He asks her how much money she will need to complete her purchases. She answers. He counts, estimates, gives her some notes and replaces some in his wallet.
‘Is that enough?’
Shakila nods. They say goodbye. Wakil leaves, Shakila lies down on the red cushions. She heaves a sigh of relief and helps herself to a few pieces of mutton. She made it – she is supposed to appear cold and distant until they are married. That shows plain good manners to her family who are losing her.
‘Do you like him?’ sister Mariam asks.
‘Well, yes and no.’
‘Are you in love?’
‘Hm.’
‘What does hm mean?’
‘It means hm,’ says Shakila. ‘Neither yes nor no. He might have been younger and better looking,’ she says and turns up her nose. She looks like a disappointed child who did not get the walking, talking doll she wanted but just a rag-doll instead.
‘I’m just sad,’ she says. ‘I regret it. I’m sad because I’ll be leaving my family. What if he won’t let me visit you? What if he won’t let me work, now that it is permitted? What if he locks me up?’