Chapter Ten
“Release yourself from people’s chains…and you’ll fly as high as the…pigeons.”
The following day at school break, Shafih collapsed as we lay on the lawn to enjoy the warm sunshine and the smell of fresh grass. Students chilled out in twos and threes, eating simyan and chickpeas, sucking lollipops, or crunching on biscuits.
‘When did Frishta join the school?’ Shafih said.
Nobody acknowledged him. Wazir and Shirullah positioned their right arms over their eyes, empty simyan and chickpea wrappers in their hands.
‘She’s a beautiful bird.’
‘She’s a good jelai– stay away from her.’ I grew assertive with Shafih since Frishta had banished his ex-boss. Rumour had it that Rashid had been killed in the recent battle in Maidan Wardag.
‘Why are you jealous? Is she your jelai?’
‘She’s my neighbour.’ I wanted to break his bones.
‘So?’ He chewed on a piece of grass.
‘Frishta’s my sister,’ Wazir said, his eyes still buried in the arm.
Shafih knew he couldn’t fight the most feared halek in school. I felt proud that Wazir was my best friend. Nobody dared to even stare at me.
‘I know you’ve snitched on me,’ Shafih said.
‘The last thing I want to see is your ugly face,’ I said.
‘My best friend is waiting for me.’ Shafih pointed with his eyes to the plastic sheeting that covered our class windows above, got onto his feet and dusted off blades of grass from his bottom. ‘His name is Baktash.’ He jumped over the roseless bushes and vanished into cheering students.
I’d been trying to persuade Wazir to change his views about Baktash, but Baktash would make it more difficult by hanging around with Shafih. Baktash’s emigration to the back seat was in a way a relief: it helped to avoid looking into his accusing eyes as if I’d cut his wings. The feeling of being a goat carcass had become worse. More and more, I felt like a dog whose collar was with Wazir.
***
TWO DAYS LATER in the warm sun of mid-morning, the sports ustad took us to the schoolyard. The sports classes instead fast-tracked the military training and prepared male students for the frontline.
‘Knock, knock,’ Shafih whispered. He lay on his chest next to me in the school trenches the size of some dozen graves. In fact, we nicknamed them ‘our future graves’.
I pretended he wasn’t there and instead listened to the bald-headed ustad, who lectured on the importance of keeping the skull safe in the trenches from the enemy.
‘Frishta shows me green lights,’ Shafih continued. His eyes travelled to Frishta, who tricked Sadaf and shot a basketball.
‘You’re a fucking liar.’
Frishta’s thoughts centred on serious matters; she had no time, as she once put it when we worked on Hafiz’s poem on mina, for ‘trivial matters’ like relationships. She saw lovers as ‘weak’ and believed in minafor one’s watan and Khudai. Frishta smiled at his compliments because she had no knowledge of his filthy intentions.
He fished out a light green piece of paper and waved it at me. ‘Mina letter. She’ll be mine.’
I wished I had the courage to punch him in the face, as red (and ugly) as the monkey’s bottom.
He smirked. ‘Why did you lose colour?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Rashid will be back soon. We’ll teach you and your boss a lesson.’
‘Fuck you, and fuck Rashid.’ I raised my voice and called Wazir.
Shafih sneaked away and joined Baktash.
***
THAT EVENING, thanks Khudai, my parents went a little earlier to Frishta’s. I dashed into Frishta’s room before she said salaam to my parents and started exchanging political comments with Agha on the frightening rumours of elements from the Khalqis and the Parchamis having secretly invited opposing mujahideen groups, Gulbuddin Hekmatyar and Ahmad Shah Massoud in particular, to take over ministries in Kabul.
She suggested I help her with the Pashto assignment on Khushal Baba, adding that the essay constituted half of the course work. Frishta struggled with Pashto, too. She often complained that schools in Kabul taught only one subject in Pashto when at least half of the population were Pashtun.
‘Have you noticed that Afghans punish their greatest when they’re alive, and mourn them when they’re dead?’ Frishta said, sitting in her usual place, her right side leaning towards the bed’s footboard.
‘We appreciate them too late.’
‘Baba’s own people, in fact, his sons, deceived him for Mughal’s sim and zar.’
‘Money and gold’ were our weakest point, I acknowledged, sitting by her feet.
‘Baba was different, though. He preferred poor independence to a kingdom.’
‘He died unable to unite Afghans or defeat the Mughals.’ I unintentionally sounded annoyed.
‘It’s immaterial, Ahmad jan. His advice continues to influence us.’
Why did she chat and joke with Shafih if it did? I swallowed the words.
‘It does so because he thought about his people. Accepted a hard life but refused to compromise on principles,’ Frishta added.
‘You’re in a preaching mood again. Can we get to the essay?’
She smiled. ‘I’ve chosen a quote from Baba’s poem, which I think captures his message well.’
‘Which one?’
Frishta read: The very name Pashtun spells honour and glory; lacking that honour, what is the Afghan story? In the sword alone lies our deliverance.
‘Khushal Baba would see showing green lights to Shafih as dishonourable?’ I’d have burst if I’d kept the words inside me any longer.
Her colour darkened like her wardrobe in the corner. She looked up into my eyes, searching for something. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you like Shafih?’
Her colour changed further. The door swung open. Mahjan stepped in with a tray and placed it on the rug before my mattress. Instructed us not to forget the tea and closed the door behind her.
Frishta leaned on her right arm and resumed writing with her left hand. Khushal Khan Khattak Baba was an Afghan poet, warrior and scholar, she wrote. He’s known as ‘The father of Pashto literature’. ‘What makes you think I like Shafih?’
‘Shafih told me. He’s written a mina letter for you.’
Baba encouraged a revolt against the Mughal Empire in the 17th century and promoted Pashtun unity through poetry. She wrote another sentence and looked up. ‘What do you think of our match?’
I disliked Frishta’s question.
‘Ahmad jan, every jelai needs to have a soul friend.’
Her reasoning dismayed me.
‘Frishta, you know boyfriend-girlfriend relationships are haram.’
‘Khuda jan is sympathetic to mina.’
‘Are you in mina with Shafih?’
‘He’s handsome. Funny. Brave.’
Her last statements contradicted the Frishta I’d known not long ago, up to this evening, the true jelai of Afghanistan, the serious Frishta whose thoughts revolved around politics, duties for her watan, working towards a future in which the rights of her sisters were protected.
‘You said you didn’t believe in mina.’
‘I do now.’
‘And fallen for no one else but Shafih?’
‘Shafih’s the only person who dares to talk to me about his emotions after Rashid,’ Frishta said and carried on jotting down notes about the quote, whose message her action opposed.
Nobody expressed their mina for her because everyone saw her as an honourable jelai, who refused to let the thought of a romantic relationship cross her mind. Plus, who could dare to become her halek even if she wanted one? She was too good for anyone in the school; she was the ‘bird’ who flew ‘highest in the sky’.
I reminded myself that she asked me, the ‘trusted person’, for my opinion on Shafih, and I had better stay as one.
‘Do you know Shafih was Rashid’s friend?’ I heard myself say.
‘Shafih was hardly involved in Rashid’s crimes.’
Things sounded more serious; she must have inquired about Shafih.
‘You must also know he visits bad places.’ Shafih often bragged about how he had sex with prostitutes.
Frishta considered the last revelation. Stood up and opened the window. Sounds of neighbours’ chatter and fresh air pierced the room.
‘He told everyone how he taught Laila lip-kissing because “cheek-kissing was old-fashioned”.’
‘What’s the difference?’ She leaned on her right arm and recommenced writing.
‘How would I know? Ask Shafih.’
She appallingly wrote down in the corner of the paper: lip-kissing versus cheek-kissing – Shafih?
‘Ask him also if he fights dogs. Gambles on partridge-fighting. Flies pigeons.’ His father and, now increasingly, he were renowned for kaftar bazi, the play of pigeons.
‘Akbar Badshah was crazy about kaftar bazi.’
‘He wasn’t about partridge-fighting.’
‘A halek proposes to a man’s daughter. “Do you smoke?” the man asks. The halek says no. “Do you gamble?” The halek says no. “Do you fight dogs?” The halek says no. “What habits do you have?” The halek has none. “Sing me a song.” The halek is not Ustad Sarahang. “Tell me a joke.” The halek is not Mullah Nasruddin. “Fuck off,” the man says. “A man who hasn’t got a habit and can’t tell a joke is like a flaccid penis that won’t stand up when you need it.”’
‘The man must have been on hashish,’ I said. What’d happened to her tonight to speak in such shameful language? Safi screamed in the lounge, followed by Mour’s voice, telling Zarghuna to give him the doll.
‘Shafih follows his passion. He’s released himself from people’s chains. You do it, and you’ll fly as high as Shafih’s pigeons.’
‘You want me to abandon studies and stand on the rooftop, whistling, wielding and waving a long stick to flying flocks? Then come to school and endlessly talk about how my pigeons circled the sky of Makroryan, how they dipped and dived before settling down on the rooftop?’
‘If this is your passion, why should we judge?’
‘Shafih isn’t true to his word. He’s a pervert. A serial swearer. Talks a lot but thinks little. I’d prefer a smart enemy than a fool for a partner.’
Frishta stopped writing and sat up, casting a shadow on the wall behind her. ‘Shafih listens to his heart. He’s brave enough to mingle with me at breaks. You and I have been friendsfor weeks, yet you’re even embarrassed to talk to me in public.’
‘We aren’t friends.’ Did Frishta intend to befriend Shafih to prove her point because I didn’t dare to be a friend?
‘What are we?’
‘Neighbours. I’m here to assist you.’
‘Ahmad jan, what is it you really stand for?’
‘To get into medical university. Get a job to support my parents and sisters.’
‘Not your future plans.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You once told me you weren’t the police to fight bullies. You only interfered if it affected you or your friends. Right?’
I remembered telling her that in this very room, then untidy, but now, thanks to Frishta’s efforts, the cassette players, the cases, clothes, chocolate wrappers, books and notebooks had ended up where they belonged.
‘Wazir decides to kick out Baktash. You follow him like a sheep.’
‘I’m not a sheep. I’ve been trying to make peace between them.’
‘This is not the point.’
‘Fighting isn’t the answer either.’
‘Standing up for what’s right is, even if it doesn’t affect you, even if it hurts your mother or best friend.’
‘Frishta, I don’t like you hanging around with Shafih. People think filthily.’
‘You know by now I don’t live for “people”.’
‘You know I won’t publicly hang around with you and damage my reputation.’
‘I didn’t ask you to.’
If only Frishta wasn’t stubborn and understood that immoral romantic relationships stained her honour and damaged the family’s standing that saved her life.
‘Shafih doesn’t care about his reputation,’ she said as if to herself.
‘He’s a gambler, drinks alcohol, bunks off school. He has no reputation to start with. But you have a good name and shouldn’t go for a person like Shafih.’
‘Who shall I go for?’
‘No one. You aren’t meant to. Just wait like every other Afghan jelai for your wedding.’
‘You won’t understand. You haven’t been in mina.’
‘No, I won’t. We’re meant to marry and then fall in mina. Mina before marriage corrupts you and disgraces your family.’
‘I can’t. I want a halek now.’
Her last remarks froze me. As the conversation developed, I became dismayed, then angrier. How on earth could Frishta grow so immoral? As far as I’d known her during these five weeks, she’d proved to be an honourable jelai. Never missed a prayer. In fact, we often prayed our Maghrib and Isha prayers together on the prayer rugs, which were neatly folded on Frishta’s bed. How many stories she’d told of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. What happened to her religiosity? To her Afghanness? To Khushal Baba’s philosophical advice?
‘I suggest you don’t give your heart away to a halek until you’ve done your nikah. Deep and lasting mina blossoms after the nikah.’
She tilted her head, facing the cauliflower-shaped chandelier, and sighed.
‘Shafih and his friends wear burkas and “touch” women in Nowruz picnics.’ I remembered another negative point about Shafih and told her.
On Nowruzes, women and jelais – including Mour, Nazo and Zarghuna – went to the Shah-Shahid Padshah Shrine. Mothers prayed for themselves and their families as well as kept an eye out for suitable jelais for their sons, and young jelais prayed for a good husband and fortunate life, Mour once told me. The occasion also enabled Shafih-type haleks to wear a burka and molest women and jelais.
Her gaze travelled to the untouched bowl of sugar-coated almonds and chocolates on the tray, then to the cups and the teapot, to my face, contemplating or listening to the loud BBC News from the lounge, and the neighbours.
‘Shafih’s using you. He’ll enjoy himself and then dump you.’ I went on telling her that once in a wedding in Kabul Hotel, Mour showed me a woman with a smiling face whose qataghani dance skills made everyone’s jaws drop. The woman was in mina with a man as a teenager, but after ‘using her’, the man dumped her. He told her if she fell in mina for him before marriage, she’d do so for anyone after marriage. The man married another woman and had grown-up kids, but to date, no suitor put a foot over the smiley-faced woman’s doorstep in Karte-e-Now District.
‘I’ll also enjoy myself.’
Her unashamed remark hit me like thunder.
What did I hear? To my astonishment, a burst of laughter. ‘Don’t explode. I was only joking,’ she said, drying her watery eyes with her hands.
I had no idea what to make of her. Perhaps our geometry ustad had been right to claim that women were as complex as algebra formulas. Was she just laughing or crying? Did I believe her serious face, her logical reasoning, or her claim to a prank? Whatever it was, I didn’t like the idea of Frishta letting Shafih compliment her and, on occasion at breaks, hang around with her.
‘Frishta, I dislike you flirting with Shafih. You should stop it.’
‘I’m a free person and can choose who I hang around with.’ Frishta’s face darkened. Her two rabbits – white and light brown – from the opposite wall peered at me with eyes wide open.
‘In this case I won’t help you from now on – ask Shafih.’
‘Are you trying to control me because you’re helping me out?’ Her face turned darker, this time like the sky from the open window.
‘Who am I to control you?’
‘Precisely.’
‘I can’t help you anymore. I have my own studies.’
‘It’s up to you.’
‘I won’t come to your house anymore.’
She pointed straight to the front. ‘There is the door.’
‘Tell Agha you don’t need my help anymore.’
‘Of course.’ She broke into tears.
I sneaked out, overwhelmed by a mixture of hatred, anger, disgust, and even loss towards her, society and, importantly, myself.
***
MINUTES LATER THERE was a knock at our apartment door. I opened it. She stood behind the door, holding notebooks. Her eyes had turned red.
‘They belong to you.’ She threw the notebooks in and dashed into her flat.
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