Chapter Twenty-Seven
The unpredictable life of the airport gave way to the safety of Shujah’s home and his family: Nazigul, her 13-year-old, and four-year-old daughters and the six-year-old twin sons.
After freshening up and exchanging news about the fedayi bomber, and after I implored Mour, Nazigul and Shujah to stop discussing the horrifying experience, Nazigul – a few inches taller and much slimmer than her husband, and in a calf-length brown dress with white trousers – led us to the lounge, furnished with machine-made red and beige Turkish kilims.
You’d say Nazigul washed, ironed, polished and repolished every launderable item in the room. The brown mattresses around the walls and brown pillows for backrests shone. The brown curtains blocked out the sun and gave the impression that a giant floor lamp stood up behind the curtains. The walls looked as white as the snow of Salang. A vanilla scent and rotating fan added a sense of freshness to the room. The corners of Mour’s mouth stretched towards her cheeks, I thought, at seeing her apartment having been kept in good order. Inshallah, from now on, a smile would replace Mour’s constant headaches.
Shujah answered his mobile. His forehead wrinkled, and he left.
Nazigul and Amina brought in one type of food after the other – sabzi challaw or spinach palaw, kofta kebab or chopped meat kebab, mantu or meat-filled dumplings, yoghurt, salad, Coke, lemon juice, melon cut in slices like crescents and Hussaini grapes –and spread them out over a tablecloth on the floor. The steaming quabili palaw smell took over the room.
‘How can you afford such riches?’ Mour said, pointing to the food. Shujah taught my once-favourite subject, History, in a high school for a monthly salary of £80 and worked as a taxi driver in his free time, yet struggled to cope with rising inflation.
‘It’s nothing. You’ve travelled over from London,’ Nazigul said, sitting next to Amina in the left corner near the door.
‘I’ll decide the menus going forward from now on,’ Mour said.
Mour’s announcement relieved me because, according to melmastia, Shujah and Nazigul would borrow, or worse, see their children go to bed hungry, but ensure that Mour and I received such delicious food.
Shujah entered, and the twins sprinted to him. ‘Excited your tror has come?’ Shujah, who’d changed into a black perahan tunban, asked his twins about Mour. The twins jumped up and down and hugged Shujah. Like him and Amina, they were short in stature with shaved heads.
As I put the first mouthful of rice, raisins and sliced carrots and sipped my lemon juice, the twins sat cross-legged near their mother, staring at their father. Shujah, Nazigul and the twins had already eaten; they motioned for us to carry on.
‘I’m hungry,’ one of the twins said, pulling at Nazigul’s white silk headscarf.
‘Shut your face,’ Amina said, glaring at her brother. She was old enough to know that the guests ate the most supreme portions of food in Afghan culture.
Mour and I insisted on them joining us. The twins didn’t need to be asked twice after Shujah nodded, but Amina kept shaking her head. Using their bare hands, the twins ate like they’d never tasted quabili palaw before, especially raisins and carrots. Every time we asked if they wanted more food, they nodded, pointing towards their plates – and cups: they drank Coke like water.
‘We’ve finished,’ they finally said in unison, dusting the crumbs off their laps.
Nazigul told them to wash their hands and dry their Coke-stained perahans. They exchanged looks, did a succession of backward rolls across the floor and exited the door next to the muted 32-inch flat-screen TV stuck to the wall.
My eyes caught the words Sitara-e-Afghan. Three men and a woman with a bare head and a traditional Afghan chapan of black, red and green, sat behind a large desk while a teenage jelai with a microphone sang. Amina confirmed it to be Afghanistan’s equivalent of Pop Idol. She told an amazed Mour and me, as we chewed on grapes and melon slices, how Afghans now watched nearly 100 Afghan channels which aired their versions of famous Western programmes; not to mention the hundreds of international stations through satellite. In the 1990s Afghanistan broadcast only one TV channel. I recalled neighbours queuing to use our home telephone: now ‘20 million’ Afghans owned mobile phones. Afghanistan wasn’t what I’d envisioned: an old acquaintance that I’d left in a crippled state.
***
NAZIGUL BROUGHT IN TWO thermos flasks of green tea with three glass trays of sugar-coated almonds and chocolates, and placed the trays before me, Mour and Shujah. Amina entered with three more trays, passing the one full of cups to Nazigul, and putting the other two in front of Mour and me. She left.
‘Your watan’s dried fruits,’ Shujah said to me, nodding at Amina’s tray (divided into six), holding almonds, walnuts, pistachios, dried blackberries, green raisins and fried peas. Tea and dried fruits signified teatime – a time for discussion. And for once, it wouldn’t ensue around politics, but rather around a business which pulled Mour and me to our watan.
Sitting cross-legged at the top end of the room on a mattress and with the fan blowing air against her face, Mour asked when we’d meet the jelaisand their families. Shujah and I sat diagonal to Mour’s right and left on mattresses alongside the wall, leaning against cushions. It looked like Mour chairing a meeting.
‘Tomorrow,’ Nazigul said. She poured tea into one of the cups and placed it before Mour.
‘The sooner, the better,’ Mour said. Steam came out of the cup and made its way towards the closed curtains.
I conveyed my gratitude to Nazigul for searching to find me the necessary stone and mortar to construct my home: a decent wife, healthy children in time and, inshallah, an increased sense of purpose to Mour’s and my lives.
‘It’s no trouble whatsoever for a nephew. Inshallah, your wife will soon be here sipping tea with us,’ Nazigul said, blushing. She put a cup of tea before me.
I said manana and drew in the cardamom flavour.
Nazigul filled a black cup and placed it in front of Shujah. ‘By the way, Nazia turns out not to have finished her school.’ Nazigul gazed at the ground, her face blushing.
‘I thought they had all finished their education.’ I confirmed the facts Nazigul had told us. Over the years, Mour and I Skyped Nazigul, sometimes Shujah, in our pursuit of finding me a suitable jelai in Kabul. Nazigul and Shujah did the background checks. Impropriety, bad reputation and incomplete education were red signs in a khastegari: the latter delayed the wedding for years.
‘May Khudai strike me blind for having believed her mother,’ Nazigul said, blushing again. ‘The mother lied because she didn’t want to lose us. The jelai’s willing to abandon her studies should she get engaged to Ahmad jan.’
‘Good. A woman can’t be both a wife and a student.’ Mour ate a sugar-coated almond and sipped her tea. ‘Education isn’t important for a woman, anyway.’
‘With due respect, education is empowerment.’ I wouldn’t let Naziadrop out; I’d wait until she finished her education. Years back, I learned my lesson from Frishta and made a pledge. National honour compelled you never to break a promise.
‘Both you and I aren’t educated. Have we both not been suitable wives?’ Mour said to Nazigul, who glanced at Shujah. ‘And suitable mothers? Haven’t I succeeded in giving you an outstanding upbringing?’
‘You are educated, Mour,’ I said.
‘Why do you insist on education? I fear you might even send her to work?’ Shujah said.
‘What’s wrong with a woman working?’ I said.
‘Women are created to be home ministers.’
‘They can be foreign ministers, too, under the right circumstances.’
‘Would you allow your wife to be a Naghma?’
‘You jump from one extreme to another, aka Shujah. Teaching’s what I have in mind.’
‘I’m surprised, given your Islamic views.’
‘Islam doesn’t prevent women from working, provided certain conditions are met.’
‘Those won’t be met unless the Taliban take over England,’ Mour said.
‘They already exist in Islamic schools in London and Birmingham,’ I said.
‘Well, for us Pashtuns, husbands living on wives’ salaries are considered… “brave”.’
‘I’ve already told him,’ Mour said to Shujah.
I forced a smile. ‘Is imprisoning them courageous?’
‘Whichever jelai you choose will inshallah become your daughter-in-law. They’re all willing to marry Ahmad jan,’ Nazigul chipped in, her face blushing.
‘They don’t want to marry him, really. All they want is a ticket to England,’ Shujah said with a wink in my direction, his right hand counting prayer beads. ‘Who in their right mind would want to marry Ahmad?’
‘Correct,’ I said and took a mouthful of almonds and green raisins.
Everyone laughed.
I sipped my tea.
‘Appearance isn’t important for a halek. Education, skills and decency matter, and mashallah Ahmad jan has all of them.’ Nazigul sounded like my defence lawyer.
‘So you are confirming he’s ugly.’
Everyone broke into laughter again, apart from Nazigul. She blushed, swearing on Khudai that she didn’t mean the connotation Shujah ascribed to her sentence.
I got some walnuts and dried blackberries. Chewed on them. Thanked Khudai for the arrival of the moment I’d prayed for for years.
‘Visit first those who’ve finished school,’ Mour said to Nazigul.
‘Latifa.’
‘The Tajik one?’
‘No, it’s Humaira,’ Nazigul said.
‘Mour, respectfully, Tajik, Pashtun, Hazara: they’re all Afghan.’
‘Mour’s insistence makes sense.’
‘Why’s a Pashtun better than a Tajik, aka Shujah?’
‘Hawks fly with hawks, not with crows.’
‘Latifa’s Pashtun,’ Nazigul chipped in, glaring at Shujah.
‘Those racist views have ruined nations,’ I said.
‘Ignore him, brother. He’s been brainwashed.’
‘So have our brainwashing stamp,’ I added. ‘Anyway, is Latifa confirmed?’
‘Whoever you choose,’ Mour said without looking at me.
‘OK, it’s Latifa… Thanks, Nazigul.’
Children screamed. Amina slammed open the door and poked her head through it to complain that the twins had misbehaved. Shujah shouted to keep it quiet. Asked Amina to shut the door and carry on babysitting. Sat upright, slipped the prayer beads into an inside pocket of his brown jacket, and asked for our attention. I sat up straight with my hands in my lap. Shujah closed his eyes and recited a verse from the Quran. After the verse’s completion, we held our hands up before our faces and prayed to Khudai for forgiveness and blessing on Agha and my sisters.
Had we lived in Afghanistan when the tragedy took place, we’d have had fateha on the third day after the burial, where friends and relatives would’ve brought in foods. For the next 40 days, they’d gather in our home every Thursday evening, read the Quran, visit the graveside to pray for the souls of Agha and my sisters, and return home to a quabili palaw. On the fortieth day, we’d hold another khatm, read the entire Quran, where all friends and relatives would join us. Last, we’d have the first anniversary, where friends and relatives would drop in for a final memorial ceremony and perform a khatm.
But we knew no Afghans based in Durham or even Newcastle. Only a handful of Afghan families lived in England then, mostly in London. We kept in contact with no family even after Afghans began to pour into England post-1998, after they ascertained the Taliban didn’t intend to bring King Zahir Shah out of exile, but pursued a radical agenda. Shujah’s fateha was the first we received, and it was as soothing as the sound of the blowing fan.
‘How did it happen?’ Shujah asked, taking his prayer beads out of his jacket pocket.
‘My sisters slipped off the boat between Slovakia and Hungary. Agha tried to save them, but they all drowned.’
Shujah shook his head and motioned to Nazigul to serve tea. ‘No one to save them?’
‘Like the Day of Reckoning, nobody cared about anyone except themselves,’ I said.
Nazigul emptied my cup and filled it with fresh tea. I uttered manana.
‘Did you tell the police?’
‘Illegal asylum seekers have no existence. Plus, the smugglers broke your legs if you stepped outside.’
‘The bastards themselves didn’t help?’
‘They chained me like a dog because I’d put their colleagues in danger.’
Shujah shook his head once more while Nazigul, who refilled Mour’s cup, appealed to Khudaito blind the human traffickers and their family members.
I scarcely discussed personal matters. Not once mentioned anything to anybody about our journey to England. No idea why I opened up to Shujah. He called me ‘son’ at the airport and I saw Agha in him. Or guilt didn’t trickle through me for overburdening him and Nazigul with the painful details of our past lives? Or perhaps I opened up because Shujah and Nazigul cared and let us grieve? Whatever the cause, it lifted a heavy weight from my chest.
‘I remembered the day Agha and I spoke to the Afghan smuggler, Qadir, in Moscow,’ I said to Shujah. ‘“$5000 per person. Leave the money in the firm next door and within two weeks you’ll be in London,” Qadir said. “Living next door to Princess Diana.” He winked at Agha and laughed. “Don’t forget to release the money once you reach London, though. A telephone call will suffice,” Qadir went on.’
‘May Khudai put in a grave his long ponytail,’ Mour said.
‘You know, aka Shujah, before we reached Hungary, we were sold like slaves four times between smugglers. They shoved 30 people into a stinking room where they pressurised us to defecate and urinate, all in one bucket. Feed us with just enough food and water to survive. Threw 15 in seat-less Audi A4s like sheep. Squeezed dozens into the back of lorries for hours without food or drink. You didn’t know whether the lorries would end up in England or back in Ukraine or Turkey. Gave toddlers “sleep medication” to shut them up. Parents had no clue that their kids were intoxicated.’
Nazigul put her hands on her cheeks in shock, saying how the alcohol impurified the poor kids’ blood.
‘People died from heart attacks, strokes and suffocation because we weren’t allowed to see a doctor.’
Nazigul prayed to Khudai to never show such a day to anyone.
‘A family abandoned their grandmother in bitter snow because she couldn’t keep up the pace.’
Nazigul asked for forgiveness, making another prayer to keep all Muslims from such an experience.
‘The searing sun turned you round and round and dropped you dead.’ Knowing it was disrespectful to sit with legs outstretched before the elders, I adjusted my position on the bumped-up mattress to unlock my knees and relieve the pain. ‘After spending five months in Ukraine and Lithuania’s prisons, Mour and I arrived in England. A “two-week” journey took 15 months.’
‘Getting to Europe is like passing through the Seven Labours of Rustam,’ Shujah said.
‘Rustam at least made it in one piece to Sohrab,’ Mour said.
‘Agha and your sisters weren’t the first ones to perish on the voyage, and won’t be the last.’
‘Europe’s like heroin. Flies you in the sky as you discover it; pulls you under the ground once you live with it.’
‘Still, we see it as the easiest solution to escape despair. There’s no future for our kids here.’ Shujah sipped his tea. Nazigul withdrew a container from his side pocket and sprayed the room with more vanilla scent.
‘If only we found Agha and my sisters’ bodies.’
‘I’ll have to go to my grave knowing we haven’t fulfilled our obligations,’ Mour said, rocking from side to side while the fan blew against her face.
Mour went on telling Shujah what she’d been telling me over the years, how Agha and her daughters never got the relatives to wash their bodies, sprinkle rose water on them, wrap them in a white cloth and transport them on a straw bed to a mosque where a mullah would recite their Janazah prayers, the prayers for the dead. They never had their friends and relatives gathered at the graveside intoning, We come from Khudai, to Khudai we return. In fact, no graves were dug for them. ‘We let the fish eat their flesh…’ Mour’s voice broke.
Nazigul sat by Mour’s feet, putting her hands on my mother’s knees.
‘Nazo wanted to be a doctor. Zarghuna loved journalism,’ Mour said.
‘That was their destiny. You could’ve done nothing to prevent their fate,’ Shujah said. ‘You have your son to be thankful for.’
‘Thanks, Khudai,a hundred times over. He’s a hard-working halekwith no bad habits. Focuses on his studies. Hardly misses a prayer. Always respectful to his mother. He’s a diamond,’ Mour said.
‘I’m aware,’ Shujah said.
I didn’t think I was as good as a ‘diamond’, but I did my best never to forget for a moment who I was, where I came from, what I believed in and why I did so.
‘Pull open the curtains, Nazigul. We’re all vitamin D-deficient in England,’ Mour said.
The sun’s rays came through the tree branches as Nazigul drew the curtains aside and opened the windows. The trees were filled with birds; their tweets sounded as calming as Ahmad Zahir.
Mour held out a £20 note to Nazigul to get Amina to exchange it and bring some watermelon for me. Nazigul took it after Mour insisted. I asked Mour if Shujah could keep the rest. Mour thanked me for reminding her, and asked Shujah to look after our money and passports. With relief, we handed the three bundles and our passports to Shujah.
‘Can’t you keep them yourselves?’
‘Going out with so much money is an invitation to death, stupid woman,’ Shujah said to Nazigul. Nazigul blushed, gazing at the kilim. ‘With a pointy nose, ferret-like eyes and a long neck, she not only looks like an ostrich but also acts like one,’ Shujah added.
Nazigul blushed again. I bet she’d have concealed her entire body if she could. She dashed out.
The unnecessary assault upset me, but telling an Afghan how to treat his woman equalled a declaration of war.
Shujah put the bundles in his pocket.
‘Brother, haven’t you heard? Count the money even if you find it on the street.’
Shujah yielded after Mour insisted and confirmed each bundle was £2,000.
‘This is our life savings for Ahmad jan’s wedding,’ Mour said.
‘Consider it locked in the safe of the Afghanistan Bank,’ Shujah said, indicating to us to drink our teas.
I opened cow candy and put it in my mouth.
‘Zoya, Mour’s sacrificed plenty for you. You’d agree she’s got more rights over your life than you do yourself,’ Shujah said.
‘Sorry.’ Sipped my tea to swallow the melting candy stuck in my throat. ‘The Quran and the Prophet, peace be upon him, emphasise that children show kindness, respect and obedience to parents,’ I said.
‘Especially the mother.’
‘Woh.’
‘You know why?’
‘Mothers go through the problems of pregnancy, pain of delivery, sleepless nights of feeding, raising and educating,’ I said, thinking who’d spend 36 years of her life in full service of another person? Only a precious mother made such a sacrifice.
Amina entered, followed by Nazigul with puffy eyes, the daughter holding a watermelon half her size. She placed it before Shujah.
‘Listen to what your brother said about parents,’ Shujah said to Amina. She ignored him. Sat against the wall, closed her eyes and took deep breaths.
Shujah looked at me and pointed at the door with his eyes.
***
I FOLLOWED SHUJAH INTO what was once my bedroom, furnished with red Afghan handmade rugs, red mattresses and pillows. He shut the door.
‘What are you really here for?’ he whispered, still smelling of strong aftershave.
‘In Kabul?’
He nodded.
‘You know it… the khastegari.’
‘That’s not what the NDS thinks.’
I was filled with trepidation. ‘What does it think?’
‘You’re planning to travel to Miranshah to join the Taliban.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘The phone call before lunch… was from the NDS.’
I took a deep breath. A child outside counted numbers, and others shouted to hide.
‘You shouldn’t have come to my house. I have a wife and four kids to look after.’ His chevron moustache and upper lip trembled.
‘Aka Shujah, relax. I won’t do such a thing to put your family in harm’s way.’
His forehead wrinkled. ‘These jihadists are good to no one. You saw it at the airport. They nearly killed us all. Don’t get brainwashed by them.’
‘The American puppets tell lies.’
‘They’re our lions, you know. Fucking true patriots. You live in peace in Europe owing to their sacrifices,’ he said, drops of saliva landing on my neck.
‘Let’s agree to disagree.’
‘Have you thought of your mother?’
‘Aka Shujah… don’t worry. I’m not what they suspect I am.’ I pleaded with the half-convinced Shujah to keep it away from Mour. ‘Let’s have the watermelon.’
***
LYING ON MY MATTRESS with my head on a pillow, viewing the starry sky like blue water filled with white marbles, hearing neighbours’ talk and laughs over Ustad Mohammad Hussain Sarahang calming ghazal, accompanied with harmonium and tabla in the distance, and feeling the Kabuli breeze wafting into the room through the open windows, I couldn’t sleep. Saw Frishta everywhere in the room but didn’t let her memories shatter my dreams, just as she’d want me to. Having not seen the jelai likewise occupied my thoughts as the imminence of the khastegari, as early as ‘tomorrow’, dawned on me.
Back in England, the eyebrows of my fellow student doctor, a psychiatrist, rose and his mouth dropped when he learned I’d marry a jelai I hadn’t seen or known. I told him, inshallah, marrying a traditional jelai from Kabul would address his common diagnosis of consistent fights among partners: different reference points, blurring responsibilities, trust deficit and unwillingness to make a sacrifice because ‘life’s too short’.
He nodded and his mouth stretched. Behind the smile hid a question: where’s mina in an arranged marriage?
I trusted mina would develop, I told him, if I took his prescribed medications to fighting couples: mutual respect, care and appreciation.
He smiled and uttered an inshallah.
‘Inshallah,’ I heard myself mutter over Sarahang’s Oh Yaar.
I knew my future wife would be leaving her entire family behind in Kabul. Her parents would be giving me a piece of their hearts, and I could envisage pleading in her father’s eyes to look after his princess. I’d be there for her not only as a husband, but also as a best friend. I’d appreciate her. Listen to her concerns. According to the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, the best of us were those who were good to their women. I’d show her as much respect as King Amanullah had given to Queen Soraya.
Would Latifa emerge to be my Queen Soraya? Ahmad and Latifa. The names sounded good together. Would she give me her hand tomorrow or say salaam from a distance? What would she talk about? How long would we have to spend together to get to know each other? I prayed I wasn’t sleeping alone this time next year.
To hell with it: I let myself envisage next year and the years after… Open my eyes in the morning and it is Latifa I see first. She’s the woman whom I kiss for the first time in my life. I come home, and she says salaam and kisses me on the cheeks. I return the gesture and hug her because Mour is upstairs. The three of us eat dinner together. Soon the number increases to five. I’m different from Agha. I give Latifa and my kids all the time and attention in the world. I drop my son and daughter at school and help them with their schoolwork. We go shopping for food and clothes on Saturdays. I take them to different cities in England on Sundays. Latifa hugs me and kisses me when I reveal I’ve just become a threshold consultant. She’s proud of me. I say I can’t wait for the day she completes her degree. We watch movies together. Cook together. Clean up together. Mour and my loving wife drink tea in the living room while her grandchildren sit in Mour’s lap. Mour feeds them with walnuts and dried blackberries. They call Mour ‘Anay’ – Grandma. I see a smile on Mour’s face, as vast as the sky of Afghanistan.