Chapter Twenty-Two
‘Zoya, wake up. We’re going,’ Mour’s voice said.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘We’re leaving.’
‘I’m not coming.’
‘Ahmad, it’s 3pm. We’re leaving now.’ Agha’s voice again.
I rubbed my eyes and opened them to see a sack by Agha’s legs next to the burning lamb. I realised and jumped to my feet, hitting my head against the steel pipe. Even time wasn’t on our side. The fighting had died down an hour earlier.
Brigadier told Agha and me to stop worrying about Baktash and his father – anytime the war could escalate. Last night I insisted on taking part in Baktash and his father’s burials.
Mour gave the keys to Mahjan. ‘It’s taken me 20 years to build it. Please look after my home until we return.’ I never imagined Mour abandoning her mosque one day.
‘I’ll take care of it like my own home,’ Mahjan said, leaning against the wall by the stairs.
‘No crying please. Don’t make me emotional,’ Brigadier said.
Mahjan and Mour hugged, both sobbing.
‘It’s only a few weeks before the UN brokers a peace settlement,’ Brigadier added.
Mour reiterated that Mahjan checked on her apartment every day.
‘Think that you’re here yourself.’
‘I thought I’d bring Ahmad’s bride to this flat. Wed Nazo and Zarghuna from here.’
‘Khuda jan is merciful.’
Mour pointed to Mahjan’s round baby belly. ‘I’m concerned about you.’
‘Don’t worry. By then, the war will be long over. You’ll be here, cooking us delicious ashak,’ Brigadier chipped in.
‘They’ll help,’ Mahjan said, pointing to the tearful Shukria and Barmak’s wife, both standing by the stairs.
They nodded.
‘We’ll continue to pray for Barmak saheb,’ Mour said.
‘My heart says he’s well,’ Mahjan said.
Fresh tears came to Mr Barmak’s wife’s eyes. She nodded.
I feared she’d break down when she found out about her husband’s fate.
‘You’ve filled in the space of the brother I never had,’ Brigadier said.
‘The feeling is mutual,’ Agha said.
They hugged. Their eyes welled up.
Every neighbour’s eyes misted. We lived most, if not all, of our lives in this block and shared the sweetness and bitterness of life together.
‘Princess, you haven’t said goodbye to your aka jan and tror jan,’ Brigadier said.
Frishta leaned against the wall in her usual place. Still refused to look at me. Still denied tears to her eyes.
‘Frishta jan, goodbye for now,’ Agha said, stroking her white headscarf. Throughout the war she put on her school uniform.
A scream, as loud as a hurricane, filled the basement.
‘Frishta?’ Mahjan said.
Brigadier gestured to leave her alone. Perhaps he wanted Frishta to release the emotions she’d built up over many days.
‘Aka Azizullah, why does every wall we lean against fall to pieces like sand?’ Tears flooded her eyes.
‘Human greed,’ Agha said.
‘I don’t know how much longer Khuda jan will punish us.’
‘Patience, zoya,’ Agha said.
‘Roya and Baktash are no more.’
‘Pray for them,’ Brigadier said.
‘I’ll miss you, aka jan.’ She jumped to her feet, hugged Agha and kissed his hands. ‘And you, tror jan.’ She embraced Mour and pecked her hands. Mour planted a kiss on her head. Tears poured down Mour’s cheeks.
She hugged Nazo. Both sobbed. ‘You eventually managed to take her away from me,’ Frishta said to Mour and chuckled. She picked up the sleepy Zarghuna from Mour’s arms and kissed her on her cheeks. She hugged Agha again, carrying on weeping. ‘So you’re leaving us, too.’
‘Frishta jan, we’ll be back as soon as the war ends,’ Agha said, and stroked her head.
‘It’ll end soon, princess,’ Brigadier said.
‘Look after Nazo and Zarghuna,’ she said to Agha and kissed Zarghuna.
‘Don’t worry, they’ll be playing with you soon,’ Agha said.
‘Aka Azizullah, you’re very fortunate to have a loyal wife. Cherish her.’
Agha’s eyes wandered; so did Mour’s. Mahjan frowned and told Frishta to let us go. Both sobbed. Frishta passed Zarghuna to Mour.
During all this, she never looked at me or uttered a word.
We left.
***
WITH THE SLEEPY Zarghuna on my back in the heavy showers, I turned around and had a final peep at the basement buried in bushes, and mumbled a goodbye to Frishta, to Baktash, who’d soon enter a wet hole behind his flat forever without his best friend being there, to the bloomless acacia tree – wet, cold and weeping like me – and to the block, whose heart must’ve ached like me to see one child dead, the other abandoning it, and the third broken.
Goodbye, my sweet Makroryan, I said. You know, I love you. I’ll soon be back. Look after my Frishta.
***
AFTER STAYING FOR A night in a camp in a relatively safe Khair Khana, we took a coach to Mazar-e-Sharif, almost a day-long trip, to Agha’s friend’s three-storey house.
I horrifyingly found the red diary on the first day in Mazar-e-Sharif. Frishta had given her jacket to Nazo, who’d worn it under the raincoat. To my astonishment, I was about to find out Frishta’s greatest secret.