Chapter Sixteen
The wooden door, crumbling with age, had no chink to peek inside.Should I knock, or jump over the wall into the house? If I knocked and someone answered, what was I supposed to say? If that person was Shafih, I’d thrust Mour’s kitchen knife into his stomach. But then I wouldn’t catch the two red-handed. And what if Frishta opened? Or worse, Shafih’s mother or sister? The combination of a hot April afternoon and harrowing thoughts soaked me with sweat.
I placed my trust in Khudai and found my right foot on the metal knob, pulled on the upper edge of the wooden door and was on the wall of the one-storey hut. Scanned the yard, and to my relief saw no one. Threw the knife into the dried plants and jumped in, causing a dragonfly to fly away.
The yard’s unattended yellow and green plants almost covered the well, with a plastic jug sitting on the wooden cover. Placed the knife in my hip pocket and tiptoed towards two rooms built from mud and clay on the far side. My heart thumped; my forehead broke out in a cold sweat. I stepped on upper ground which led to the entrance hall’s wooden door, the only access to the two rooms on its left and right; it was padlocked from the outside. The thick curtains obscured the rooms inside. Their wooden window frames were covered with plastic sheeting. I reckoned nobody lived in the house. It served as a pastime place: invite women, spend the time in total privacy, and nobody, not even the police, would have the slightest doubt the crumbling house was being used for womanising.
Tiptoed to the two mini-sheds in the yard’s left corner, and stepped on the mud stairs. Hordes of bees flew as I removed the curtain and peeked through the hole. Cupped my nose and dashed out. Trod into the adjacent shed. A shovel and a saw leaned against the coals and firewood. I placed it on the opposite side, moved some wood and coal, created a hiding space, and through the chink secured a good view of the two rooms.
I’d wait until Frishta and her halek’s arrival, allow them to enter one of the rooms, pause and then burst in to catch them on top of each other. The kitchen knife would burst Shafih’s belly.
My heart sank to my stomach as I overheard the clanging of a padlock opening. I seek refuge in You, Khudai, I prayed in my heart. The door clunked open. Footsteps. I breathed gently, a sharp piece of wood poking my back. Please, Khudai, help me conquer my fears and fulfil my pledge.
Frishta came into sight. Placed a bag of dishes outside the doorway, opened the padlock, and disappeared. Any moment now, the door clunks opens and Shafih comes in, I thought. Frishta pulled a straw bed out and walked back in. They chill out outside. Great – it makes my revenge easier. Come on, ugly Shafih, I thought.
The dramatic scene – or not at all dramatic, given her nature – Frishta displayed next created within me a claw with sharp nails like Mour’s kitchen knife, squeezing, twisting and cutting my stomach: Frishta pulling a thin corpse, her hands placed underneath its shoulders. She laid the corpse on the straw bed, closed her eyes, inhaled and exhaled a few times, her face breaking into a sweat. Rushed back in, exposing to view a woman in a brown dress and black headscarf. Brought out an Istalifi-sufali pitcher and put it under the bed. Withdrew a nappy, and as she took the woman’s trousers off, I closed my eyes. After washing the woman’s hands, face and feet, and drying them with a towel, Frishta helped the woman to wear new, dark brown trousers; they belonged to Frishta. The woman prayed throughout for Frishta, and the claw pulled my stomach out, forcing me to throw up the sour liquid on the dirt floor while trying hard to shut out the sound.
The woman started to pray by gestures, and Frishta headed for the sheds with the dirty clothes and a pot. What if she smelled my vomit? Thankfully, she entered the toilet. The sound of bees flying coupled with washing clothes. Sweat rolled down my forehead. Please don’t come in here, Frishta; please Khudai, help. I thanked Khudai for the wall between us, not the one I’d created through my sickimagination, but for the mud and straw wall which divided the shed and the toilet.
I wiped my sweat and breathed with ease as she walked back. She took the dishes out of her bag and placed them next to the praying woman. Sprang to her feet, apologised and rushed inside. Stepped out with a photo frame, showed it to the woman and giggled. The woman kissed Frishta on the head, considered the photo frame, and felt it with her hand. The look on her face told a long and nostalgic story between the photo in the golden frame and her. Frishta propped the frame right in front of the woman.
Now the photo faced me. I recognised the face in the black tie. Not just me, but our whole school knew him. No longer feared him, though, because Wazir had sent the man to the life of eternity. Everyone would lose it quickly and have constant puffy eyes like Baz Muhammad if they had to care for an invalid wife in such poverty-stricken conditions.
My right hand travelled to my forehead and stayed there. I understood Amrudin Khan’s salute was not a pretence. Raziq Khan didn’t exaggerate to regard her as the ‘True Jelaiof Afghanistan’. Their comparison of Frishta to Afghan heroines came from the heart. Frishta genuinely possessed all the qualities that a true daughter ofAfghanistan like Malalai Anna and Nahid Shahid had displayed: chastity, bravery, loyalty. Above all, integrity. I knew now what the word meant, and Agha was spot on. Malalai Anna and Nahid Shahid sacrificed their lives, but declined to abandon their brothers. Frishta jeopardised her physical and moral safety but refused to desert her sisters – and brothers. Frishta once again showed her true nature.
Instead of helping Frishta with caring for the algebra ustad’s invalid wife, I doubted her chastity; instead of thanking her for putting her reputation on the line for me, I accused her of being an accomplice; instead of supporting her with her studies, I stole her diary. I still couldn’t work out why she spoke to Shafih, but talking didn’t mean dating. We stayed in each other’s rooms for hours every evening. Did we date? Did she even once act inappropriately? Her comments about Shafih must’ve been a prank. My sensible part convinced me I’d made serious errors of judgment about Frishta, and, actually, it was I who’d betrayed her. I pinched my flesh. It didn’t hurt. Squeezed it again and again. No pain. Pressed Mour’s knife against it. My arm was covered in blood, yet I felt no pain.
After my argument with Frishta, I started to crave for her, her jokes, stories, her whole company. A glimpse of Frishta in the school, or corridor, or even on her balcony, quenched my thirst; I felt like I was flying in the air. My heart dreaded the moment she wasn’t there. I was physically in my room, but mentally with Frishta. Her thoughts had turned me into an insomniac. Her…
That day in the shed, I confessed to the Almighty – a confession I didn’t dare to admit to myself: Khudai, You know what I’ve been through after the damn argument with Frishta. It isn’t being used to her, so I must stop trying to convince myself. It isn’t Satan who wants to lead me to the wrong path. It’s a true mina, which I can’t live without, even for a day. No one has the slightest idea about my feelings for Frishta, as You know. I myself noticed the day we stopped the one-to-one classes. You have been a witness to our every meeting. You know throughout the time I’ve known Frishta, never a dishonourable thought has crossed my mind. But I fear You will punish me for falling in mina before marriage, especially with a jelai whom I’ve called a sister? Punish me for a stain to my Afghanness? For a betrayal of a friendship? Something that’d been eating me from within. I beg You for forgiveness. Please help me find a solution. I promise if we ever get together, we’d go through the Islamic channel – she’ll become my wife. Please, Khudai, forgive me. Please help me… please… please.
The claw’s sharp nails now burned my stomach, urging me to go to Frishta and beg her for forgiveness. But I knew she’d get furious if she found out I spied on her. Again. I waited until she fed the woman, took her back into the building and left the dirt house.
***
MINUTES LATER I climbed over the wall and sprinted to our local mosque. The mullah in white perahan tunban and white turban, and unlike me, smelling of rose fragrance, inquired whether the jelai’s mother had breastfed me, or whether Mour had breastfed the jelai. I answered no to both questions. To my great relief, he confirmed I could marry Frishta, even though I’d called her a sister, elaborating that in Islam all haleks and jelais were considered brothers and sisters to one another unless they got married. He also told me not to be hard on myself, as Khudai sympathised with genuine mina and was merciful.
***
ON THE WAY home, I decided to speak to Frishta in school, hoping she’d come, and beg for her forgiveness. Once she forgave me, I’d then find a way to let her know what I’d gone through for her after the evening classes ended. I dreaded revealing my feelings for her, though. Had to be very careful how and when to express them, or else I’d lose her forever. If she showed sympathy – I didn’t know at this point what I’d do if she got mad – I’d send Mour for khastegari to Brigadier and Mahjan. How to tell Mour about my feelings for Frishta was another hair-raising step to take. I prayed Khudai brought kindness to Mour’s heart.
But that tomorrow where we’d go to school never came.