Mahmood lowered his reading glasses and put his book on the nesting table to his right. He was reading the poetry of Ibrahim Khalil, the prolific Kabul poet who was beloved by many in the Waziri family. As university students, Mahmood and Hameed had taken a course taught by Khalil. While I loved his verses, I couldn’t help but think of Najiba’s husband when I heard them. That I’d once allowed my husband’s cousin to recite Khalil’s poems to me made me wildly embarrassed. He tried, from time to time, to engage me with a quatrain or two, but it was not something I could share with Mahmood. It felt dishonest.
“Look up, bachem,” Mahmood said.
Saleem sat cross-legged before his father and slowly lifted his head. Mahmood paused, reconsidering whatever it was he was about to say.
“Let me read something to you,” he said and picked Khalil’s book up from the table.
Know that your fortune is not polluted
As infant you nursed of milk undiluted
The labyrinth of woe behind which you are gated
From your own fancy, was borne and created
For punishment is not the Almighty’s intent
Nor does He disrupt, mislead or torment
Upon our shoulders, all malaise and grief
Are naught but the harvest we have chosen to reap
“Do you understand what these words mean?”
“Yes, Padar-jan.”
“Then tell me, Saleem-jan, what do they mean to you?”
“That I should not act like a child.”
“Saleem-jan, I’m sorry that when you wake up every morning, this is the world that you see around you. I’m sorry that this is the Kabul, the Afghanistan that you are seeing. I wish you could have learned to take your first steps without rockets firing over your head. This is no place for a child, but because of that, it’s all the more important for you to step up. You must find a way to make good of this situation — to reap a noble harvest.”
I could see the resentment on Saleem’s face. All he was ever told was no. This much he’d shared with me on more than one occasion. The things he could do were few; the things he couldn’t do were endless. But Saleem bit his tongue and did not protest the injustice that even Mahmood admitted.
“Saleem-jan, my son, now is the time to learn to look after your own actions. Your mother and I watch over you, but every day you are less and less of a boy.”
Sometimes I argued with Mahmood that he needed to be firmer with the children. Why they feared his punishments, I could not understand. He did little more than lecture them and give them disappointed looks. But the children respected him, as did I. So many nights the children and I nestled around him, vying for space to listen to his stories. His arms wrapped around us all, tying us together in one package.
I lost myself in those moments, loving my husband more than I’d ever imagined I could. I often missed Khala Zeba and wished I could have thanked her for putting me in his arms.
In the night, with the children breathing softly beside us, Mahmood rubbed the knot in my back.
“Saleem will be a great man — he has a lion’s spirit in his young eyes,” he whispered. “Before we know it, the day will come when he’ll be man of a house with little ones of his own. Do you know what I pray for, janem? I pray that day comes neither too early nor too late.”
I took Mahmood’s hands from my back and wrapped them around my waist.
“And I pray that it’s in my naseeb to see that day.”
“God willing, we’ll both see that day,” I managed to get out before the lump in my throat swelled.
CHAPTER 14. Fereiba
A MONTH LATER, WE MARKED THE HOLIDAY OF EID. DISTANT RELATIVES and friends had been dropping by to pay their customary visits despite the city’s somber mood. When we heard the knock at the gate, we thought nothing of it. Mahmood went to answer it, and I instinctively put a pot of water to boil for tea.
But the people at the door were neither friends nor family.
Gruff-looking men had barged into our courtyard and sauntered into the foyer.
“So this is the home of the engineer,” one sneered, his words thick with distaste.
I gasped at the sound of men’s voices booming from within our home. The teakettle fell with a clang, water pooling on the floor.
Saleem and Samira were at my feet drawing pictures on scraps of paper. I shot them a look and pointed upstairs. Frightened, they scurried up the steps without the slightest protest.
I threw on my burqa and looked into the living room.
Three men had entered our living room and were eyeing our belongings contemptuously. They wore loose-hanging caftans and pantaloons in khaki and gray, drab colors that made their pitch-black beards and machine guns stand out. Their guns were slung casually over their shoulders. The tallest of the three was twirling Mahmood’s tasbeh, his worry beads, around his finger. When they caught sight of me, an azure apparition, in the doorway, they ordered me back into the kitchen.
Mahmood looked alarmed but composed. He had stepped in front of me instinctively and gave me a quiet, pleading look to follow their command.
I was terrified to leave my husband alone with these men who’d forced their way into our home, but I also had my mind on my two children hidden upstairs and the one I carried under my burqa. I lowered my head and backed into the kitchen, still within earshot but out of sight.
“You are an engineer.”
“Yes.” Mahmood’s voice was controlled.
“And you work for the Ministry of Water and Electricity,” he said. From the soft clinks, I knew one of the men had turned his attention to the porcelain tea set in our glass curio. It had been a wedding gift from Khala Zeba. The cups were delicate, with gold leaf on the handles and dainty pastel painted flowers. We had no photographs, no television, and no radio, thank God. I hoped once they realized our home was free of contraband, they would leave.
“Yes, I do. Is there something that I can help you with?”
“We’re looking for Mahmood Waziri, the engineer who works for the Ministry of Water and Electricity — the man who is known to be in defiance of our Islamic laws.”
My heart raced. I glanced up the stairs and saw the shadow of two small heads peeking around the corner. I motioned them to back away.
“Defiance? But I have not defied any. .”
“You’d better come with us so we can tell you exactly the sins you’ve been charged with committing.”
“Sins? My brothers, there must be a misunderstanding.” I detected a slight tremble in Mahmood’s voice, but nothing compared to the way I was shaking.
“There is no misunderstanding.”
“But, please, hear me out for one moment. I’ve done my best to comply with all the decrees that have been handed down—”
“We will not speak here, unless you wish to bring your wife and two children into the living room to watch us charge you with your crimes.” Mahmood let out a deep sigh.
“No, no, no. That’s not necessary. I’ll come with you.”
“Mahmood! Please do not take him! He is an innocent man!” I cried out, my voice shrill and unnerved. I was in the doorway, on my knees.