That is enough, they whispered. I hated them.
Bibi Gulalai was there. Wailing louder than anyone else.
Why? Dear Allah, what a sweet little boy he was! Too young, too young to take! His face, I picture his face before me as if he were still here. I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it! Oh, my poor son! Why should you have to have such a tragedy happen to you, my God-fearing son! My lion among men! If only I’d known sooner! I could have done more for him! I could have made him better!
I hated her.
I was numb. Days passed. Rituals were performed. All the right prayers were said. All the wrong people came to pay their respects. I noticed little of it, only the absence of my own family. My mother, my father. They never came to their grandson’s fateha. My father was not there to carry my son or throw fistfuls of dirt onto his grave. It mattered, though it shouldn’t have. Jahangir had never known them anyway.
Khala Shaima came, as did Shahla. My aunt and my sister sat by my side as I rocked back and forth, their eyes red and raw. Someone asked Khala Shaima about my parents, if they were coming. Shahla bit her lip and looked at the ground. I heard my husband curse my father. He was insulted, not only as a son-in-law but also as a former commander. Whatever respect he owed his father-in-law, out of tradition, was lost now. And I didn’t care.
“Oh God, Rahima-jan,” Shahla whispered. “I can’t believe this! He was so full of light!”
I closed my eyes.
Khala Shaima looked thinner than she had the last time I’d seen her but I couldn’t bear to think on it much. She shook her head and whispered to me that the medicine had gotten the best of my parents. It was hard to tell which of them was worse than the other. She clucked her tongue in dismay and squeezed my limp hand.
“They can barely get themselves up and about in the house,” she said.
“You’re there a lot,” I said blankly.
She nodded. She was concerned about Rohila and Sitara. She had mentioned in her last visit that rumors were circulating of suitors for my younger sisters. She wanted to make sure the girls were not given away in a careless stupor.
My aunts and uncles came. Even my grandparents. I kissed their hands. They cried and made sorry excuses to my husband and mother-in-law for the notable absence of my mother and father. They were embarrassed more than anything else.
You never saw him, I wanted to scream. You didn’t know how sweet he was.
I’d never expected much from my grandparents. They’d had little to do with my sisters and me since we were married off. It was as people said. Once married, girls no longer belonged to the families that raised them. Especially if they only raised them halfway. But Madar-jan, she’d been so different once upon a time.
“She’s that bad?” I asked Khala Shaima.
“She’s that bad, dokhtar-jan,” she said, confirming it. “Your sisters, Rohila and Sitara, they really wanted to come see you. But your grandmother didn’t think it was proper for them to come without your mother. And, of course, she wouldn’t let them come with me. Rohila cried when she heard. She wanted to hide under my burqa and sneak over here. Sitara, she’s very reserved but she’s a strong girl. You girls would be very proud of your sisters.”
I was sure she was right. They were surviving in a home without a mother or father, essentially. They’d been abandoned just as much as my own son.
“I should have taken him, Khala Shaima. I should have taken him to Kabul with me. He wouldn’t have gotten sick with me. And even if he had, I could have taken him to a hospital. They have the best hospitals there. Lots of doctors. Even foreign ones.”
“Your husband never would have allowed it. He keeps his sons at his side, my dear. You know that.”
“Then I should have stayed with him. I didn’t have to go to Kabul.”
Khala Shaima said nothing. We both knew it had been her idea.
My son was buried in the family plot, a half kilometer from the compound. It was sacred earth for Abdul Khaliq’s family.
My husband was quiet, different. I knew he was hurt.
“He’s with his ancestors now. They’re watching over him, as is Allah. His fate is our fate,” Abdul Khaliq said to me when the men returned from the burial.
Naseeb. Was it really Jahangir’s destiny to be taken so young? Was it my naseeb never to see my son grow taller than me, to go to school, to help his father at work?
Abdul Khaliq asked Jameela to look after me. I saw him pull her aside and have a few words. They watched me. Badriya too, although a week after Jahangir was buried, she quietly asked Abdul Khaliq when she could return to Kabul. His hand flew across her face so fast that she’d barely finished her sentence.
I closed my eyes and wished for everyone to disappear, including myself.
Every Friday, Abdul Khaliq’s friends and family members gathered at our compound for a khatm. Each person read one of the thirty parts of the Qur’an. Prayers were said at the completion, or khatm, of the holy book. I could hear them from down the hall and prayed along with them, hoping it did Jahangir some good. It did me none.
Khala Shaima came back more often than before, even though the trip had become very difficult for her. She was worried. I was losing weight; my clothes hung loosely on me. When I looked in the mirror I saw someone I barely recognized. My face had dark spots and my eyes were heavy. I saw Jameela and Khala Shaima exchange worried looks.
Abdul Khaliq let me be for the most part. He wasn’t speaking much either. His guards tiptoed around him. His friends kept their voices low and their comments brief. My husband, the warlord, was not one to express or show emotion, but it was clear that he was grieving. He was short even with Bibi Gulalai.
My head felt like an empty, dark room. My insides were painfully hollow. I missed my son’s face, his smile, the way his small fingers held on to mine. He was supposed to be safe. He had survived infancy. He had learned to walk, to talk, to tell me when he was hungry and when he was happy. Jahangir. His name was a dagger. His name was a salve.
Four weeks passed before I was able to ask the questions that remained.
“Jameela-jan.”
Jameela stopped short, surprised to hear my voice. “Yes?”
“What happened to him?”
Jameela stood still for a moment, pondering my question. Then she sat on the cushion next to me in the living room, tucking her legs under her and straightening her skirt. She put her hand on mine.
“Rahima-jan, he became ill. Everything happened very quickly. So quickly.” Her mind traveled back to that day. “Abdul Khaliq called Badriya right away.”
“I want to know what happened to him,” I said insistently.
After me, Jameela probably carried the most guilt. I’d left Jahangir in her care and come back to find my son dead. She felt terrible about it. She wasn’t sure how much to explain and how much to leave unsaid. She told me in bits and pieces, filtering as she went along.
First came the fever. His body was hot. From his head to his toes, so hot, Jameela said. She had tried to fan him, to cool him down with baths. His bowels were loose. Jameela looked for worms but saw nothing in his stool. When he started to complain about his stomach hurting, she’d talked to Abdul Khaliq. He saw Jahangir’s trembling body and immediately called for Bibi Gulalai. Bibi Gulalai set to work making a soup heavy with garlic and herbs to clear the germ from his body. But instead of getting better, things got worse.