Chapter Thirty-Five
‘“Traditional jelai” was what was on his lips. Now he abandons the traditional jelai in Kabul and gets married in England. I don’t understand the logic of this.”
Nazigul whispered that there were ‘people’ waiting in the lounge. A man in a qaraqul hat with two armed men greeted me as I entered, introducing himself as Haji Pahlawan.
‘Your passports.’ He passed them to me.
I checked the personal details pages and Mour’s settlement visa on the Afghan passport.
‘This is $5,000. Give me 24 hours, I’ll return you the rest.’
‘Ours were pounds,’ I said and looked at Shujah standing by the open window with his head down.
‘I’m sorry, we’ve invested the money. We’ll give you dollars by the exchange rate.’
I counted 50 notes.
‘What about the apartment?’
‘Shujah will sort it out tomorrow in Surobi,’ he said.
‘Surobi?’
‘Your mother and Wakil saheb have just arranged it,’ Haji Pahlawan said, his perahan getting dented by the rotating fan. ‘Shujah, I don’t want to hear a complaint from Ahmad jan.’ He asked Shujah to check that ‘the way is clear’.
Melmastia compelled me to ask him for tea.
He thanked me. ‘Please say you’ve received your money in full if Wakil saheb asks.’
‘I won’t tell lies.’
His face changed colour but forced a smile. ‘It’s OK, I’ll speak to her myself,’ he said. Shujah gave a clearance of no non-mahrams on the way. He asked me if I followed him downstairs. I hesitated but told him I’d see him shortly. Handed Mour the dollars and passports in the kitchen and, despite Mour’s concerns, rushed down the stairs, feeling the ache in my body and reading the All-Hearing, the All-Knowing dua.
The door of a red Carina opened, and the broad-shouldered man got out, the exterior bright corridor light shining on his face. He extended his right hand and uttered a ‘salaam alaikum’. Melmastia once more prevailed: I shook his hand.
‘He insisted on apologising in person,’ Haji Pahlawan said, with armed men standing behind him.
‘We’ve been fed wrong information about you,’ the broad-shouldered man said, raising his bushy eyebrows and revealing the blue pupils behind them.
‘By who?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You’re now our brother. Anything you want to get done in Kabul, I mean anything, give your servant a shout,’ Haji Pahlawan said, putting his hands over his chest.
‘I don’t want a bandit for a brother. I’ll pursue my claim against him at the Human Rights Commission.’
Haji Pahlawan’s lips stretched as if I threatened him with a snooker club.
‘I want my money back by tomorrow,’ I said and made for the corridor, seeing Mour and Nazigul’s heads poking out from the balcony above.
***
SHUJAH, MOUR AND NAZIGUL discussed going to Surobi in the lounge as I entered. Mour asked me what Haji Pahlawan wanted; nothing important, I said. Amina followed in, telling Nazigul that the twins were asleep. The kids and the family would’ve gone to bed hours before midnight had it not been for my late coming from Frishta’s.
I asked for the timing and details of Mour and Frishta’s arrangement, which I found surprising given our argument half an hour ago. But Frishta’s helping nature never stopped astonishing me. Frishta had talked to Mour while I was driven back by Ashraf. Mour added that Frishta had just spoken to someone in the court in Surobi, and they’d complete the transfer of ownership in a day. The exact process took up weeks in Kabul. Frishta would handle the paperwork and send the title deeds to Mour in England. What would happen to Nazigul and the children? The question bothered me.
‘We’ll be back by the evening,’ Mour said.
‘I’m coming.’
Power went down and came back up again, forcing Nazigul to say ‘Na’.
‘It isn’t safe.’
‘I’m not better than you.’
‘You’re not needed.’
‘I am. I fight my own battle.’ It was disturbing to be a liability to others. I felt ashamed that Frishta kept rescuing us.
‘I’m tired of hearing this.’
‘Respectfully, Mour, I’m coming. I want to see that all the paperwork is done correctly. Plus, I miss Surobi.’ I really did. I no longer wanted the fear of this or that to stop me from visiting the birthplace of my ancestors. And no longer trusted Shujah; he could easily deceive Mour in court.
‘You’ll go once there’s peace.’
‘There’ll be no peace in my lifetime.’ I sounded like Agha.
‘Your stubbornness will put me in an early grave,’ Mour said.
‘Nazigul, did Frishta ever inquire about me?’
Nazigul looked at Shujah, who sat opposite me on the mattress with a wrinkled face.
‘Never, once we told her we didn’t know you,’ Amina said, pointing with her eyes to Shujah.
‘Not everyone’s like you,’ Mour said.
‘Thanks, Khuda jan, you didn’t marry Frishta. She’s the sort to stay away from,’ Nazigul said, her eyes swollen from earlier today.
I’d already decided to do so – albeit for a different reason. It was time to forget about her. Really forget about her. The old Frishta was mine, killed with a heart full of love for me. The new Frishta belonged to somebody else. I hadn’t touched a woman all those years, while she’d shared a warm bed with her husband and produced three daughters. I thanked Khudai I didn’t see him. If also I didn’t witness Frishta having compromised what Agha admired her for: that absolute integrity.
‘I’ll bring the flight dates earlier,’ I said.
‘We haven’t seen all the jelais?’ Mour said.
‘I don’t want to marry for now.’
‘Why?’
‘Things are more complicated than I thought.’ Frishta’s rebirth and Nazia’s suicide, like the devastating airport fedayi, had hit me hard; they pained me more than the crowd punching and kicking me before school. Those destructive blows coupled with the complexities of khastegari concussed my will to get married in Kabul.
‘Didn’t I tell you in England?’
‘It’d be a waste of money to leave before seeing the other two jelais,’ Nazigul said.
‘In England, he was insistent on getting married in Kabul. “Traditional jelai” was what was on his lips. Now he abandons the traditional jelai in Kabul and gets married in England. I don’t understand the logic of this,’ Mour said.
‘I’ve made my decision.’
‘We–’
‘Don’t force him. It’s his life. I’m too tired to care anymore,’ Mour cut Nazigul short. I’d never heard this from Mour. She deserved that I kissed her hands and told her how sorry I was for having wrongly accused her, but decided against it. I’d do it in our own home in England. If only I’d known.