Chapter Thirty-Four
The jeep drove through Afghanistan’s green zone, Sherpur, or what Nadir called ‘Sher-chur’ (lion’s loot) in his thesis. Nouveau riche warlords, drug lords and bureaucrats grabbed the barren patch of hillsides near Wazir Akbar Khan District in the first years of America’s invasion and turned them into the Beverly Hills of Kabul, each mansion with skyscraper glass windows worth millions of US dollars. We turned into a street, and four times vehicle barriers were raised up before pulling over on the driveway of one of the luxury mansions, surrounded by gigantic blast walls. Two guards in military uniform jumped out of the concrete room by the metal gate and let our vehicle in.
A guard in a black suit gestured to me to raise my hands as I stepped out of the jeep with pain all over my body.
‘Apologies, Dr saheb. We’re ordered to search everyone,’ Ashraf said after the man moved a metal object like a cricket bat from my head to feet.
‘Don’t be sorry for implementing rules,’ I said and followed Ashraf along a lawn, which solar night lights illuminated like a bright day in the otherwise blackout of Kabul. According to Nadir, one-third of Afghans benefited from the Central Asian-imported electricity. Frishta made up one of the lucky ones.
‘The house seems huge,’ I said.
‘Four floors with 22 rooms, a rooftop fountain and two heated indoor pools.’ Ashraf looked up at the villa with the cream and brown exterior. ‘Each room has its own bathroom and toilet. The construction map is designed in Dubai.’ Ashraf sounded like he owned the villa. Sacks of sand were placed on the front of the multistorey building roof; a man guarded behind them. The flapping flag of Afghanistan and several tall aerials stood nearby.
‘Frishta own it?’
‘Of course.’
‘How many months’ salaries get you a mansion like this?’
Ashraf’s lips stretched. ‘She can buy ten villas like this from her business.’ He handed me over to a woman, who introduced herself as Nahima and led me into a room as large as Chaman-e-Hozori, and as full as the Ghazi Stadium staging an Afghan Premier League football match.
The strong perfume-scented Nahima muttered for me to take a seat. She sat on a chair next to a desk in the corner.
I found myself sitting at the end of the room with high windows and grey leather sofas, right by the door where two guards in black uniforms and black glasses stood alert. My heart beat hard and my legs shook. Held the sofa and took deep breaths. Peeped to the corner over the coffee tables arranged before the couches. A small figure sat behind the working desk and, to my relief, was busy talking to two senior men. Two guards stood by her side. Took more deep breaths. Stole another glance at the figure on the swivel leather chair; her head, to my relief, was down, writing. She wore a black headscarf. The black, red and green Afghan flag was embedded on the top-left pocket of her black jacket. Beneath the jacket was a white shirt. Frishta’s face had shrunk, the eyes had got smaller – though she still seemed younger than her mid-thirties.
A variety of emotions overwhelmed me seeing Frishta in the flesh, but disappointment took over. Selfishly, I expected a good reception from her. She didn’t even greet me. Why did she abandon melmastia?
I counted six guards and 27 visitors in the room, a Western male and a female included. Women constituted most of the visitors, all in their burkas. No one had taken their shoes off; I didn’t know where the foot stink came from.
The two senior men stood up, placed their right hands over their hearts and walked towards the door. Frishta followed them. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll personally speak with Karzai saheb,’ I overheard Frishta in faultless Pashto say near the door.
I remembered Brigadier’s words, One day you’ll make history, princess. I’m sure of this. She was making history, right there in that gigantic lounge, right in front of my eyes. How wrong Mour had been to predict Frishta’s destiny: The daughter of Brigadier will bring shame on her family. Remember my words.
Not even in my daydreaming had I imagined her to grow into such an important person whose security detail comprised dozens of armed guards, and I thanked Khudai for this.
‘SalaamAzizi saheb.’ A voice gave me the shakes; Frishta stretching out her right hand while keeping a distance, her two guards standing by her with fingers on the triggers of their Kalashnikovs. We shook hands. Surprisingly, her hand trembled, too.
‘I was busy talking to the constituents.’
Did she read my mind? In the corner, behind her right shoulder, I read Bathroom, and Prayer Room with its door wide open and guarded by a man in black uniform. Stop trembling, it’s only Frishta, I said to myself.
Frishta turned to the Westerners sitting opposite her desk in the top corner. ‘This is Mr Ahmad Azizi. We used to be neighbours, and… good neighbours. He now lives in London. Don’t you, Mr Azizi?’ Frishta said in a raised voice and, without waiting for my reply, limped back to her place, followed by the guards. Had she twisted her ankle? And why the formal tone?
The couple smiled. The woman in a knee-length dress over a pair of black jeans and a black scarf gestured to the empty place on the three-seater sofa next to her and the Western man. She introduced herself and the man, her husband, as Naomi and John in an American accent as we shook hands.
They loved London and wanted to know whereabouts I lived. Durham, I told them. They worked for a human rights NGO. Admired Frishta’s work for Afghan women. Frishta was a ‘courageous woman’, the kind any country would wish to give birth to; a voice nobody could ‘afford to ignore’, Naomi said, and John, in dark blue trousers with a light blue shirt, nodded.
Clueless about what to say or how to start a conversation on the way to Frishta, the Americans thankfully broke the ice. John and Naomi, who seemed somehow interested in my personal life, appeared impressed to hear I’d just completed my medical degree. Constituents had visited Frishta on the wrong evening because she evidently eavesdropped on my conversation with the Americans more than listened to their worries. She was at a loss for words to a visitor on the occasion that I mentioned my medical degree.
Frishta saw the constituents one by one and told Nahima and the guards, one of whom stood behind us in our corner by the closed door with an Exit sign above it, to go and eat.
‘I’ve just been saying, Ahmad jan, how much work you’ve done for the women of this country,’ Naomi said as the guards marched out.
‘I shall thank you for helping us find our place in society. Afghanistan’s women today aren’t the women of ten years ago. Our rights are now enshrined in the Constitution. We enter education and the workplace. We freely express our views. We should build on this and take Afghanistan a step further to a new era of freedom, equality and democracy.’
The couple promised to maintain their efforts to build a secure Afghanistan. A woman in a white cooking apron walked in, carrying a tray with four glasses.
‘She’s the master of mango juice,’ John said to me and thanked the woman, who smiled and put the glasses before us. ‘Delicious,’ John added after sipping the juice, his face beaming.
‘Though I’m not so sure now. While America entered Afghanistan championing our rights, she’s silent on our fate as she exits,’ Frishta said over the buzzing sound of air-conditioners from the wall behind.
‘What’s happened to the peace talks?’ Naomi asked.
I took a sip of the ice-cold mango and crunched on the pieces of almonds.
‘Nobody gives away anything. The Afghan government seemingly has no clue. I fear a US-Taliban political deal would trade away our hard-earned rights.’
‘Afghan women have the right to choose their roles. They must be included in the negotiations.’
‘I’ve warned the American officials that Afghanistan can’t have national security if its women can’t have security. It can’t have peace if its women are denied their rights to be full citizens.’
‘Let’s hope the talks are conducted responsibly.’
‘One US official told me women rights are one of their “red lines”. I said how could I trust him when one of his colleagues described us as “pet rocks” in their rucksack that were “taking us down”.’
‘That was shocking.’
‘It really was,’ John said.
John’s constant confirmations of Naomi’s statements reminded me of my patients in Newcastle, the ‘darling-honey couple’ whose warm conversation brought a smile to my face, except Noemi and John were younger, in their mid- to late fifties.
‘I told him that instead of talking about forming an interim government with them, they should bring terrorists to justice.’
‘What did he say?’
‘The usual, “every conflict eventually ends with a political solution”. But this conflict is very complicated. Would the Taliban cut ties with Al-Qaeda, stop violence against the Afghan state and accept a constitution that defends liberal values and women’s rights? Would they give up their Emirate for a Republic? Would Pakistan, Russia and Iran stop assisting the Taliban?’
‘Plenty of woulds and hows,’ Naomi said. The bright electricity dipped and burned on the crystal chandelier, as large as a truck tyre.
‘Precisely,’ Frishta said.
‘America set the mujahideen up in the 80s against the pro-Communist regime; now Pakistan uses the American technique against America,’ John said.
‘Precisely.’
‘I don’t believe the talks with the Taliban will get anywhere, anyway,’ Naomi said.
‘America longs for a graceful exit. I fear she’d give control of Afghanistan back to Pakistan by gradually empowering the Taliban, who’d subjugate us once again.’
‘For Pakistan’s guarantee that Afghanistan won’t be used as a terrorist base against America and the allies,’ John chipped in.
‘Precisely.’
‘A repeat of Iraq,’ John added.
I sipped my mango juice.
‘India and NATO won’t accept that outcome.’ Naomi stood up. John followed suit.
The couple said goodbye to me and stepped outside together with Frishta.
What to say next once she’s back? Calm down, she’s the same Frishta. I pinched my thigh, but the photo up on the wall behind her told a different story: Laura Bush and Colin Powell stood at a younger Frishta’s sides, all smiling while Frishta held a rectangular glass. Underneath the frame read The International Women of Courage Award.
My heart raced as the door creaked open and Frishta entered. Thankfully, she spoke. ‘These are my days. Start 7am; finish 10pm, sometimes even midnight.’
She sat opposite me on her swivel recliner, her hands shaking.
‘Afghan women have deservedly made progress. I’m sure they’re grateful to you.’
Her eyes beamed with joy. ‘We have a long way to go.’ She wiped her forehead with a tissue.
I nodded, clueless about what to say next. Preoccupied myself with the dirt-stained Afghan rugs.
‘Our law favours women. But it isn’t implemented. Despite the constitutional equality, our justice system regards women as half-human beings.’
I nodded, sensing maybe Frishta, like me, didn’t know what to talk about. I pressed my hands together to steady them. Did my evil action of decades back towards Frishta cause the nervousness or her charismatic presence? Or the fact that I no longer spoke to my friend Frishta?
‘Even the parliament has approved a marriageable age for a halek of 18, and a jelai 16.’
‘Gender-based discrimination.’
‘Precisely. This new law would turn the clock back hundreds of years. It’s important we annul it,’ she said. ‘In Afghanistan, you have to grab your rights by force,’ she added as an afterthought.
My mind raced to the moment I snatched the diary. Did she still remember it? Had she forgiven me? If only I had the power to read her mind.
‘The parliament is full of warlords, religious conservatives and foreign agents. They don’t give a damn about Afghanistan or its women,’ she went on.
I was desperate to learn about Frishta and her life; desperate to reveal my mina to her, let her know how much I loved her, and, importantly, determine whether she still had feelings for me and would marry me. Craved to tell her she’d been dead for me until the day before yesterday, the reason I hadn’t come back for her all these years. Talking about politics didn’t grip me, even if it came out of the very person’s mouth I dearly loved. Only one thing captivated me in Afghanistan: the woman sitting in front of me. I wanted to know how she’d spent the two decades we’d been apart. Her political discussion, though initially welcoming escapism, disallowed the opportunity to raise the subject.
‘We view women like children’s toys: mindless, soulless, heartless with no talent or ambition. We must change our outlook.’
‘Harassment of women on the streets of Kabul is disgusting.’
‘Precisely. But what has the government done about it? Nothing. Why should they? Their women are either locked in or chilling out abroad. Karzai’s the educated. His wife is a doctor. But we haven’t seen her in public,’ Frishta said.
Silence, apart from the air-conditioners buzzing and humming. Eight pieces of dried mud lay around my feet.
‘Anyway, enough of politics. It was good to see Mour.’
‘Today?’
‘Woh.’
‘Really?’
‘After I dropped Nazia off. Why?’
‘Nothing. She hasn’t told me.’
‘She almost fainted when she saw me.’
‘Yeah?’
‘She’d thought I was dead. She kissed me all over.’
Did Mour not know?
‘She was mad at your aka for having turned me into the dead.’
Why did Mour act like she’d been aware? Why didn’t she tell me she hadn’t known? Why did people do this to me? First Frishta. Now Mour. And me? Why hadn’t I investigated before making up my mind? I committed the same error. Again.
‘She told me about your father and sisters. May Khuda jan bless them.’
‘Ameen. It was a hard blow. Mour hasn’t recovered from it.’ The time was right to tell her how saddened I’d been for her loss. Losing Mahjan and Brigadier did feel then like losing a real tror and aka.
‘Life’s been a long battle. Overcoming my parents’ and Safi jan’s deaths was the hardest part.’
I was glad she showed no sentiment or went on talking about her loved ones. No Afghan had escaped unaffected by the nearly four-decade-long war. I didn’t know a family who hadn’t had a loved one injured or killed. War and death formed a normal part of Afghan life, so we didn’t go on mourning it.
‘Is Shujah your real aka?’
‘Agha’s cousin’s husband. Apparently, he’s transferred our flat ownership and won’t give back our money and passports.’
Frishta’s face darkened. ‘He said he bought the property through an attorney and didn’t know your family.’
‘It’s a lie.’
‘You know he almost gambled his daughter?’
‘Amina told me,’ I said, feeling embarrassed about what Frishta might think of our family.
‘He was mad at Amina today for having telephoned me about you and Mour.’
‘He’ll get even madder if he finds out that Amina got me in touch with you.’
‘I told him I’d throw him off your lounge window if he touched her.’
‘He’s… unbelievable. He wasn’t home now. I fear he may gamble our money and passports.’
‘I know where he is.’ She took her iPhone out and dialled a number.
‘How much money?’
‘£6,000,’ I whispered. Her phone was on loudspeaker.
‘Hello,’ Shujah said.
‘Give the phone to your boss.’
‘Hello Wakil saheb.’ A deep voice after a pause.
‘Listen carefully, no ifs or buts. Mour and Ahmad’s money, their passports and the flat must be returned immediately. I swear on Khuda jan if a penny’s lost, I’ll burn you and your entire gang alive.’
‘Leave it with me, Wakil saheb.’
‘I said immediately. Now.’
‘Understood.’
Frishta hung up, her face still dark. ‘Your aka is worse than you think.’
What else? My heart fell.
‘He’s involved in armed robberies and kidnapping.’
‘Na?’
‘Really. I know their gang.’
‘Why can’t the security forces stop all this?’
‘Our law enforcement agencies work tirelessly to establish security. Unfortunately, some let their colleagues down.’
‘Somehow, the NDS believe I work with the terrorists.’
Her black eyebrows were raised, wanting to know why I assumed so. I told her about the airport incident.
‘Bushy brows?’ she said.
‘Woh.’
‘Works for the same gang.’ She called a telephone number, but no one answered; she told me I’d no longer get hassled.
The woman in the white cooking apron poked her head around and told us dinner was ready. Frishta required five minutes to pray. She remained seated on the chair under the switched-off 50-inch smart TV stuck on a wall mount. Did she have a bad knee for not doing prayers standing up but in sitting-down positions?
She limped and pointed to the door. I refused to lead.
‘It’s considered feminine here.’ Her lips stretched.
‘The gates to the city can be shut, but people’s mouths cannot be.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Your wife is lucky to have a well-mannered husband.’ Her smile broadened. Many lines appeared on her forehead. I gauged she was tired and exhausted, even lonely. The hard and long ‘battle’ had indeed taken its toll, a battle she hadn’t fought only for herself, but also for her Afghan sisters.
After walking up the marble stairs, I followed Frishta into a medium-sized room furnished with Afghan rugs and pumped-up mattresses, scenting of quabili palaw. They must be her daughters, I dishearteningly thought as I saw three little jelais sitting at the tablecloth. The woman in the apron spread out the home-made bread. Frishta named her, but I didn’t catch it. My mind preoccupied itself with the possibility of having lost Frishta forever to these jelais’ father. Where was he, though?
We sat on the tablecloth, and the woman left.
‘I hope the food is good?’ Frishta said, referring to the variety of food ranging from quabili palaw to kebab to different drinks and a selection of fruits.
The three jelais ruined my appetite – though out of courtesy, I said there was no need for having taken the trouble to prepare so much food.
It was time to clarify facts; no time for nervousness; couldn’t afford to spend another two decades regretting. The jelais would have been our children had I dared to express my feelings.
‘I have to straighten my leg.’ She broke the silence, sitting on the cherry mattress.
‘Have you hurt it?’
‘A gift from the rocket.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The rocket took half of it.’
The room, with windows as high up as in a prison, suffocated me. Frishta without a leg? All these years? How could she have managed? I wanted to hug her tiny body and keep it in my arms forever. Tell her how sorry I was. Reassure her not to worry as I was there for her from then on. I shut up. The jelais’ father had already taken my role. Plus, what hung behind her answered my questions: three black gold canvases of Allah, Muhammad and Dua-e-Qunoot were stuck to the wall and in golden handwriting read, Those who have no one have Allah. Those who have Allah have everything.
‘I eat on the tablecloth, like Padar jan.I hope it isn’t uncomfortable.’ She broke the long-developed silence.
‘I prefer eating on the floor.’
Frishta gave a mouthful of rice to one of the jelais, complimenting her for eating solid foods. Frishta preoccupied herself with them as if I didn’t exist. She hadn’t even looked up. She’d made a home in which she seemed happy – happy, even though I wasn’t part of it.
‘Has Kabul changed?’ she said after another silence.
‘Yes, it has. To start with, you can’t find a decent jelai.’ I turned the conversation to personal matters. Should’ve done so earlier when she commented on my wife, which had me lost for words.
‘A decent jelai for what?’
‘To get married.’ Did her face darken?
She gave a spoonful of yoghurt to one of the daughters, not the previous one. I couldn’t work out who was the youngest or oldest; they resembled each other. All had short hair and wore black dresses from the same fabric.
‘How come you haven’t been married yet?’ Did I hear a sense of eagerness beneath her balanced tone?
‘Education.’ Ached for asking a personal question but swallowed the urge. I got a mouthful of rice with raisins and sliced carrots.
‘Haven’t fallen in mina with an English jelai? They’re beautiful.’
‘English jelais are for English haleks,’ I said, excited by how the conversation flew. Took a sip of the tangy-flavoured lemon water.
‘Never had an English jelai?’ Frishta’s personal question saddened me. I suspected she also yearned to discover about my personal life.
‘Ignore the silly question. I’m sorry.’ I detected a glitter of the old Frishta.
‘No need to apologise, Frishta. I never had an English jelai. I need an Afghan wife who understands my language, culture, religion. Help me look after Mour if need be.’
She took a mouthful of rice with a piece of meat and chewed it for what seemed to be forever. Unlike me, Frishta didn’t leave the teeth’s job to the stomach. ‘Have you found one?’
I found my jelai years back. She sat right in front of me, but all the signs revealed she’d gone far away. ‘Mour and Nazigul are looking into it.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Did you not like any of the four jelais?’
Mour must have told her.
‘Haven’t met them all.’
‘You’ve remained a dutiful son, Ahmad jan.’
‘Thanks, Frishta jan.’ My spontaneous reply wasn’t for the compliment, but for calling me by my first name. Hearing it from her mouth after all these years took me back to the young Frishta and Ahmad. ‘You seem to have settled down.’
She blushed. The bright light dimmed and then brightened again.
‘Where’s he now?’
‘Away.’ She blushed again.
‘Where?’
‘On business.’ She blushed yet again.
It wasn’t easy for Frishta to talk about her husband, given her feelings for me in the past, no matter how hard she tried to downplay them, so I changed the subject, certain now I’d lost her to her fortunate husband. I praised her ‘three daughters’. One of them gazed at me. Frishta gushed ‘thanks’ and planted a kiss on the daughter’s head.
I lived a life outside of the deep hole for the first time in years. Treasured its every moment, despite its nervy, awkward and disappointing moments. Sadly, it’d soon end. She’d moved on without clinging to the past. The woman wearing J’adore wasn’t the Frishta who’d dedicated one side of her diary to me. She was a wife to someone and a mother to three lovely daughters. I must respect this and mention nothing about my mina. But must clarify I hadn’t been loitering in front of Nazia’s school. I deliberately focused the conversation on the difficulty of finding a wife in Kabul because parents wouldn’t show their daughters to haleks.
‘They’d rather sell them for walwar, give them in baad or payment to settle a dispute like they’re lambs,’ she said and shook her head. ‘How does a 12-year-old know what’s good or bad for her?’
‘Not much.’
‘Their own parents deprive them of their education, their childish lives. The poor jelais spend all their lives in misery. Eventually burn themselves to death because divorce is against the culture.’
‘That’s why I went to the school to get to know Nazia, to ensure she wasn’t forced into marriage. The police thought otherwise.’ It wasn’t the police alone; someone else likewise called me a pervert.
One of the daughters stopped eating, and Frishta asked her to go and wash her hands. The daughter took the cloth off her lap and toddled towards the door.
‘When I tell husbands and parents about human rights abuses, they react with anger. “Violence against women is a Western idea,” they say.’ Frishta mimicked them in a deep voice.
I found my mouth stretch: typical Frishta.
‘They don’t understand human rights are human ideas. They don’t see that violence against women is violence against the national law… against Islamic principles.’
She made no comment on Nazia’s fate, and I left it there – at least she knew why I’d been in front of the school, something which Mour and Nazigul must’ve also told her. As always, her head was down on the tablecloth, feeding the daughters. I thought they ate a little too much for their age, especially at that time of night.
The daughter toddled back in, said salaam and sat in her place. Frishta stroked her hair, praising her for cleaning her hands and uttering salaam. Same old Frishta: a sympathetic sister to Afghan women, and a caring mother to her three children.
‘I feel today’s democratic Afghanistan is like my little princess daughter who’s learning to toddle.’ Frishta again stroked her hair. ‘She needs a responsible adult to hold her hand and help her until she can walk steadily and discover her own way. My wish is that the international community doesn’t forget Afghanistan this time until we find our way. I hope our friends don’t forget the women of Afghanistan. Women’s failure in this country is the international community’s failure.’
‘I agree.’ Every word she said felt as if it was direct from her heart.
‘It’s equally essential Afghans learn quickly how to look after their own watan; we shouldn’t leave everything to foreigners.’
‘Agha said we tend to blame others for the ills of our watan. We hardly take responsibility.’
‘Aka Azizullah was a wise man. I never forget his words: Afghans will one day find out who really has crippled Afghanistan: Pakistan or the Soviet Union?’ I’d say Pakistan if he asked me today.’
‘And America.’
‘Unlike most Afghans, I don’t blame America.’
‘I see no difference between the American and the Soviet occupation.’
‘America’s intervention is authorised by the UN. But it doesn’t mean I’m happy with her footprint. Think: if US forces leave irresponsibly, Pakistan will take over. We don’t want to terminate one occupation and end up with another, a much worse one where everyone would die from hunger. We must this time use our common sense, not emotions.’
‘What about the invasion on our values? Do those so-called celebrities with bare heads, short sleeves and plumped-up lips represent Afghan women?’
Frishta looked up, her gaze as sharp as a snow leopard’s.
‘Go and knock on each Afghan house and see who answers the door. Mour, Nazigul, yourself, or plumped-up lips with tons of make-up?’
‘Myself?’
‘You do; always did, Frishta.’
‘Let’s not bore ourselves with depressing lectures. I hope you find the right jelai.’
‘Is your husband the right person for you?’ I asked before thinking it over. All evening she tried to avoid talking about herself and our past.
Silence. The air-conditioners hummed, producing cool air.
‘Frishta, I asked you a question.’
‘I don’t answer personal questions.’ She peered down, her large eyelashes covering her black eyes.
‘I answered yours.’
One of the daughters reported the other for spilling juice on her sleeve. The culprit denied it. Frishta cleaned the sleeve and told her it was as good as new.
‘Frishta, you know well when I want something, I get it.’
Her face turned darker. ‘You won’t this time, Mr Azizi. I’ve been fighting all these years to ensure men like you don’t get “something” they want.’ Her voice wasn’t as deep as before, her veins under the white shirt popping out. The sudden outburst shook me.
‘You’ve misunderstood me.’ I used the phrase many times in our old days. Though I knew she didn’t rationalise when it came to gender equality.
‘You’re right. You still are a coward.’
‘Your anger problem has worsened.’
‘Evil men like you have driven me mad.’
‘You seem to have done well out of it.’
‘How dare you, murderer?’
‘I hope you haven’t compromised your “purpose”,’ I blurted out and meant it.
‘Fuck you.’
‘I’d lose faith in humanity if the solid stone I’ve leaned against most of my life falls to pieces like sand.’
‘You men give us nothing but evil.’
‘Misandry isn’t the answer.’
‘Pissing in your pants is.’
‘You need treatment, Frishta.’
‘Leave my house at once.’ She got up, her hand pointing to the door. On the glass table under the smart television behind her, a long-moustached Brigadier and Mahjan with a seven- or eight-year-old Frishta sitting in the middle. Brigadier peered at me.
I should’ve controlled my temper and my mouth. But I wouldn’t play a coward. I’d clarify all matters and then depart. First, I was to return what belonged to her. I took it from my jacket pocket and passed it to her.
‘I don’t need it.’ She averted her eyes.
‘I know you’ve already forgotten about it, but it’s yours.’
‘I buried that life when I buried my parents.’
‘How easily you’ve buried your childhood dreams, Frishta.’ I sounded more sarcastic than I’d intended. But why did I complain? She had no clue about my mina for her. The young Frishta saw me as a friend – the young Ahmad even denied that status. I put the red diary on the mattress, parting with it after 21 years and some three months, thanking Khudai it was eventually united with a living Frishta.
‘I said I don’t need it.’ Her eyes glued onto mine with a murderous intent – the same leopardine look she’d confronted Rashid and later the bullying Mullah Rahmat with.
‘I made a mistake to release you. Now leave before I… and I don’t want to hear from you again. Run away like a coward.’ She limped towards the door, opened it and gestured to the hallway furnished with Afghan rugs.
What I intended to do next was suicidal, but I must: I pushed on the mattress and rose on my feet with pain in my body and told her I wouldn’t leave until she heard me – afterwards, she could have her bodyguards shoot me if she wanted.
Her face turned darker.
‘First, I sincerely apologise for the diary–’
‘I’ll never forgive you.’
‘You’ve got every right not to… but at least listen to me for five minutes. There are things you need to know.’ I paused. Should I say it in front of the little daughters, who sat with blank expressions, or should I not? I knew the stubborn Frishta wouldn’t go to another room. I’d better tell her before I regretted it for another two decades.
‘I snatched the diary because I thought you were with Shafih. I felt jealous because I was in mina with you,’ I said and took a deep breath. ‘After the home classes ended, I realised my feelings for you. I know it’s too late, and there’s no point telling you now. When it was, I chickened out – something I’ll regret all my life. I wrote it in your diary, though, and placed it in your jacket in the basement, but you gave the jacket to Nazo. Anyway, you know now… and I believe you have the right to do so.
‘Second, you might wonder why I didn’t come all these years to tell you all this. I didn’t know you were alive until yesterday. I was told you’d been killed together with your parents. I’d have come for you had I known, even if that meant fighting the entire world. Would’ve never left Mazar-e-Sharif without you.
‘But we can’t change the past. Maybe we were not fated to. I’m very thankful to Khudaito see you have built a happy family for yourself. May Khudailook after you all.
‘Finally, thank you for this afternoon; you saved me once more. You won’t have to again. I’m going to leave soon after I sorted out the apartment, and you’ll never hear from me again.’
She looked down, her face still dark.
‘Have you finished?’
‘One more thing, all I wanted to say was… sometimes in attempting to fight the evils, one becomes evil. I had no intention to hurt you.’
‘Finished now?’
‘Woh.’
‘Leave.’ She pointed with her right hand to the corridor, holding the door with her left hand.
‘I’m sorry… and goodbye,’ I said to the daughters sitting in front of the full tablecloth. I looked at my three-quarters-full plate. We hadn’t discussed our friends and classmates. Where had Baktash’s family vanished to? Wazir? Frishta’s magic spell always turned me into an Ahmad who forgot about anybody else in his life. As I reached the door, I stopped opposite her. ‘Frishta jan, thank you for coming into my life and teaching me how to unclip my wings.’ I could no longer fight my tears; let them prick my eyes.
The meeting with Frishta ended. She wasn’t dead. She was alive, so close to me earlier on that I heard her breath and smelled her perfume, yet it felt we were never further apart. But she was as good as dead to me. I’d never have her. I lost her to her husband. As a true Afghan, I had to honour this; as a true lover, I had the right to let her know about my mina. And I was glad I did.