Vida gathered a few pieces of fruit, and we brought them to Mommy, who added them to her purchase. “There’s so much here,” I said. “Can we buy more?”
She smiled at me, almost in a consoling way. “Not today. We have plenty of time together. No one is going anywhere.”
Her words were so tender and loving, I could feel tears welling in the corners of my eyes.
I reached up on the tips of my toes, put my arms around her shoulders, and kissed her cheek. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
We looked at each other for a long moment. And I could tell from her face that she meant what she’d just said. In the middle of that crowded market, something good passed between us, an understanding that we had been apart from each other too long and it would never happen again.
Vida pulled me out of the moment, urging me to follow her into the street, where the music, which came from every direction, had grown louder. I shielded my eyes in the blazing sunlight that beat down on the crowded street. Vida clasped my hand and swung our arms with the beat and sang along with the lyrics. Shopping here was as much a celebration as anything else.
We followed Mommy from shop to shop, where she bought us little things—books, toys, sweets, inexpensive jewelry—just about anything we asked for. Money didn’t seem to be a problem. After the frugal days we spent in Peshawar, her spending felt extravagant. Even though I hesitated to pick things out, Vida urged me on. I couldn’t help but think about days in the mountains, when we ate bits of meat and cold bowls of vegetables, or the months in that Peshawar hotel, living on milk and soggy bread, and we wore the same clothes for months at a time. Now I was walking through this market, where every food was available at my fingertips. All the new clothes I could ever ask for and more. Many of the things I didn’t think I would ever need, and here I was purchasing them. “You should get this,” Vida would say, and suddenly I had a bracelet in my hands.
In a candy store, I stopped in front of a large glass bowl filled with wrapped candy: luminescent reds, greens, yellows, and oranges filled it to the brim. I touched the glass. If I wanted one, I didn’t need to beg someone. I just needed to ask. All of those days of worry and meagerness were over. A load of fear and living on the edge of homelessness and hunger were over. A sense of relief came over me; life felt gladly lighter. I didn’t need to carry all the concern about my future on my own. In that instant something had been returned to me, something I had lost in those days of war in Kabul, in the mountains of my country, something that lives only in the heart of a child. I turned at a familiar voice behind me.
“Half an hour till our driver returns,” Mommy said, glancing at her watch. “Would you girls like a drink of tea before we leave?”
Vida bounced on her heels. Excitement radiated from her toes up through her face in an expression of perpetual fascination and fun.
“Yes.” I nodded, taking her hand.
Mommy led us to a shop with a bright-red awning with “Tea Shop” painted on it in bright yellow. The interior was dark and hot, hotter than it was outside, and it had to be in the nineties in the street. Music blared in the darkness. It was lit only by a shaft of yellow coming through the open door. All the tables were full except one along the far wall. We reached it, and Vida went to the counter and carried back a tall glass full of steaming chai. She held it by the brim with her fingertips. Mommy carried two more glasses to the table.
“This is for you,” she said. “I put extra milk in it.” Steam floated in a thin stream off the glass. But she didn’t hesitate to lift it and take several large gulps. With a satisfied moan, she set the empty glass on the table.
“It’s a little different from the chai at home,” Mommy said. “But I think you’ll like it.”
I leaned over my glass, inhaling deeper, and let the spicy aromas soak into my senses. The glass still steamed, but I laid my lips on the rim. I sipped the spicy tea—it was hot and sweet, creamy and soothing. It reminded me of how I used to feel sitting in the kitchen with Mommy years ago, basking in the warmth of our home. And now, here in this dingy shop, I had that same feeling. We were together. I tried to contain my smile.
“You like it?” Vida asked. She raised her eyebrows, expecting me to answer. She squiggled around to sit on her knees and leaned close to me. “Do you like it?”
I enjoyed making her wonder. So I took another sip, letting the warm liquid linger on my tongue. I suppressed a smile. Here we sat together, enjoying each other’s company after years of thinking this would never happen. I had allowed too many suspicions to creep into my thoughts that when I met Mommy and Vida, neither of them would remember me. Or even care that I was around. But that hadn’t happened. At this moment, I was a most wanted child and sister, and here in this shop, they both wanted me to enjoy this new land as much as they did. I stared into Vida’s bubbly dark eyes. Eyes that said she could just pick up our life that had been suddenly interrupted. In that dank, cramped shop, I understood how much had been returned to me on this sweltering day in the marketplace. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Yes, I love it. I love this chai shop. I love everything about India.”
And I meant it with all my heart.
22
NEW BEGINNINGS
Every morning, Vida woke me with her usual verve. She took it upon herself to coach me through my daily routine in Hindi till the words began to stick. Vida had little memory of her days in Kabul. When she left, she was but a toddler. India to her was home, and she had taken to the language, the food, and the way of life here with a natural enthusiasm. It oozed from her. She was reaching out to me with all of her heart to teach me about the beauty of this country, taking me to her favorite markets and to see her favorite movies. For years I had wanted to be here, but daily I found myself pining for somewhere else.
Padar and Mommy never talked of returning to Kabul. They discussed only news of the war, which had reached a terrifying pitch. It had turned even more murderous than when we had walked through the mountains and met the mujahideen fighting for their lives. The country was being destroyed, ripped apart, so that the Soviets could rework it in their own image. So many of my countrymen had been killed or maimed. It was hardly a place my parents wanted to raise their children.
In the fall they enrolled me in Vida’s school. Dressed in the same skirts and blouses, we went off each morning together. I didn’t know the language nearly as well as Vida did, who now spoke it like a native. Even though my classmates made a real effort to teach me what I needed to know so that I could play games with them at recess and lunch, I was a foreigner. A transplant. This was a land of bright colors in so many shades, and I felt like a dull shadow. Like the dun-colored mountains of my homeland.
When I was feeling particularly sorry for myself, if I couldn’t remember a particular word in Hindi or was having trouble with school because I was behind in my lessons, I reminded myself of Mina. If she were alive, she would give anything to be with me here. There was plenty of food, nice clothes, and a beautiful house to live in. She would relish every second of this life. I had been given the blessing of an exciting opportunity—a new life. A life many of my countrymen would embrace without hesitation. I didn’t know who to thank for my good fortune. But scowling over my misfortune didn’t seem like the right thing to do.