“We will be leaving in the morning to head back to Kabul. The road ahead of us is long but we hope to reach home by nightfall.”
“Amir-sahib, you and your esteemed generals have honored us with your visit to our humble village. We wish for many more visits in the future.”
“With the roads project, travel will become easier. We anticipate that your village will be more involved in the agriculture projects that have begun. Amir-sahib has a new team of engineers that are looking at our current situation.”
“Anything that we can do here to assist you, we are at your service. I was born and raised in this village, as was my dear brother, Azizullah. Our roots here are respected by the village and we can serve as your delegates for anything you may need.”
“You have made that clear, Hafizullah-sahib. Your sentiments are appreciated.” The voice was gruff and Shekiba detected a slight exasperation in it.
“I hope so, General-sahib. And I hope that you will accept my brother’s gift to the amir-sahib. It is a small token.”
“Yes, he mentioned this earlier. The servant will ride with our entourage in the morning to be taken to the palace.”
“Wonderful. Please, General-sahib, your journey tomorrow is long and you will need your strength. Have some more sweets…”
Hafizullah’s wife came to the courtyard and found Shekiba slumped across a bench. She was a petite woman, her face lined with worry and fatigue. By the looks of her, she had done most of the preparation for the king’s visit. She clucked her tongue in dismay.
“Merciful Allah. Follow me, girl. I will show you where you can sleep until you leave in the morning.”
Shekiba slid to the floor in the corner of a dark room. She could see two small figures curled up and breathing softly. These were Hafizullah’s daughters, but Shekiba never did meet them. In the early hours of morning, the mistress of the house came to wake her. Shekiba bolted upright when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Wake up. The men are leaving.”
Shekiba focused. She heard the sounds of horses, men chattering outside the house.
She rose, made sure her Qur’an was tucked into her dress and walked outside to be taken to her new home.
CHAPTER 21. RAHIMA
There was barely enough room in our small home for Abdul Khaliq’s family. They wanted to hold all three nikkahs at the same time and brought with them Abdul Khaliq’s mother, a gray-haired woman with downturned lips and narrowed eyes. She needed a walking stick but refused to use one, preferring to lean on her daughter-in-law’s forearm instead. They also brought Haji-sahib, a mullah. Khala Shaima scoffed at the mention of his name.
“Haji-sahib? If he’s Haji, then I’m a pari!” said Khala Shaima, whom no one would describe as an angel from heaven. The title haji was given to anyone who had made the religious pilgrimage to Mecca, God’s house. Haji-sahib, Khala Shaima reported, had dubbed himself with the title after paying a visit to a shrine north of our town. But as a dear friend of Abdul Khaliq, no one contested his credentials. The two men chatted amicably outside.
Shahla kept her head down and pleaded with my crying mother not to give her away. Madar-jan’s body shook, her voice trapped in her clenched throat. Shahla was more than a daughter to her. She was Madar-jan’s best friend. They shared the housework, the child care and their every thought.
Parwin was her special girl. Part of Madar-jan had held on to Khala Shaima’s prediction that no one would want Parwin as a wife. Sometimes it comforted her that she would have her singing, drawing daughter with her always.
And me. I was Madar-jan’s helper. Her spunky, troublemaking bacha posh. I know she wondered if she had made the right decision. If I were a little wiser, I would have told her it had been the best thing for me. I would have told her that I wished I could have stayed a bacha posh forever.
The family was here to claim their three sister brides. We listened to hear what Khala Shaima would say.
Haji-sahib started with a prayer. Even Madar-jan cupped her hands and bowed her head to join in. I was pretty sure everyone was praying for different things. I wondered how Allah would sort it all out.
“Let us begin with a dua, a prayer. Bismillah al-rahman al-raheem…”
The room echoed behind him. Haji-sahib, the mullah, went on to recite a sura from the Qur’an.
“Yaa Musabbibal Asaabi.”
After a moment, we heard Khala Shaima interrupt.
“Yaa Musabbibal Asbaabi.”
There was a pause. The room had gone silent.
“Khanum, did you have reason to interrupt Haji-sahib?”
“Yes, I did. Mullah-sahib is reading the sura incorrectly. Oh causer of the causes, the verse is meant to read. Not causer of the fingers. I’m sure he would want to know he was making such an egregious error, wouldn’t you, Haji-sahib?”
The mullah cleared his throat and tried to pick up where he had left off. He thought hard but recited the verse the exact same way, error and all.
“Yaa Musabbibal Asaabi.”
Khala Shaima corrected him again.
“Asbaabi, Mullah-sahib.” Her tone was that of an annoyed schoolteacher. It didn’t go unnoticed.
I feared Padar-jan would make good on his threat to cut out Khala Shaima’s tongue. I was nervous for her.
“Shaima-jan, please have a little respect for our esteemed mullah here,” Boba-jan said.
“I have the utmost respect for him,” she said facetiously. “And I have the utmost respect for our Qur’an, as I’m sure you all do. What a disservice it would be for us to recite the verse incorrectly.”
Once more, the mullah sighed and cleared his throat.
“Yaa Musabbibal Asbaabi Yaa Mufattihal Abwaabi.”
“That’s better,” Khala Shaima interrupted loudly. I could hear the satisfaction in her voice.
We could hear the men beginning the nikkah in the next room. Padar-jan was giving his full name, his father’s name and his grandfather’s name to be written on the marriage contract.
Parwin tried to put on a strong front, seeing Madar-jan’s condition. Khala Shaima, our only advocate in the nikkah, had strategically positioned herself between my grandfather and Abdul Khaliq’s mother. No one knew what to make of her presence. Padar-jan huffed in frustration but thought it best not to make a scene in front of his guests.
Madar-jan spoke softly. We had formed a tight circle in the next room.
“My daughters, I prayed this day would not come so soon for you but it is here and I’m afraid there’s nothing I or Khala Shaima can do to stop this. I suppose this is God’s will for you. Now, I haven’t had much time to prepare you, but you are young women,” she said, hardly believing her own words. “Your husbands will expect things of you. As a wife, you have an obligation to your husband. It won’t be easy at first but… but with time you’ll learn how to… how to tolerate these things that Allah has created for us.”