The grief kept surprising Mariam. All it took to unleash it washer thinking of the unfinished crib in the toolshed or the suedecoat in Rasheed's closet. The baby came to life then and shecould hear it, could hear its hungry grunts, its gurgles andjabbering- She felt it sniffing at her breasts. The grief washedover her, swept her up, tossed her upside down. Mariam wasdumbfounded that she could miss in such a crippling manner abeing she had never even seen.
Then there were days when the dreariness didn't seem quiteas unrelenting to Mariam. Days when the mere thought ofresuming the old patterns of her life did not seem soexhausting, when it did not take enormous efforts of will to getout of bed, to do her prayers, to do the wash, to make mealsfor Rasheed.
Mariam dreaded going outside. She was envious, suddenly, ofthe neighborhood women and their wealth of children. Somehad seven or eight and didn't understand how fortunate theywere, how blessed that their children had flourished in theirwombs, lived to squirm in their arms and take the milk fromtheir breasts. Children that they had not bled away with soapywater and the bodily filth of strangers down some bathhousedrain. Mariam resented them when she overheard themcomplaining about misbehaving sons and lazy daughters.
A voice inside her head tried to soothe her with well-intendedbut misguided consolation.
You 'll have others,Inshallah.You 're young. Surely you‘ll havemany other chances.
But Mariam's grief wasn't aimless or unspecific. Mariamgrieved forthis baby, this particular child, who had made her sohappy for a while-Some days, she believed that the baby hadbeen an undeserved blessing, that she was being punished forwhat she had done to Nana. Wasn't it true that she might aswell have slipped that noose around her mother's neck herself?
Treacherous daughters did not deserve to be mothers, and thiswas just punishment- She had fitful dreams, ofNma'sjinnsneaking into her room at night, burrowing its claws into herwomb, and stealing her baby. In these dreams, Nana cackledwith delight and vindication.
Other days, Mariam was besieged with anger. It wasRasheed's fault for his premature celebration. For his foolhardyfaith that she was carrying a boy. Naming the baby as he had.
Taking God's will for granted. His fault, for making her go tothe bathhouse. Something there, the steam, the dirty water, thesoap, something there had caused this to happen. No. NotRasheed.She was to blame. She became furious with herself forsleeping in the wrong position, for eating meals that were toospicy, for not eating enough fruit, for drinking too much tea.
It was God's fault, for taunting her as He had. For notgranting her what He had granted so many other women. Fordangling before her, tantalizingly, what He knew would give herthe greatest happiness, then pulling it away.
But it did no good, all this fault laying, all these harangues ofaccusations bouncing in her head. It waskojr, sacrilege, to thinkthese thoughts. Allah was not spiteful. He was not a petty God.
Mullah Faizullah's words whispered in her head:
Blessed is He in Whose hand is the kingdom, and He Whohas power over all things, Who created death and life that Hemay try you.
Ransacked with guilt, Mariam would kneel and pray forforgiveness for these thoughts.
* * *Meanwhile, a change had come over Rasheed ever since theday at the bathhouse. Most nights when he came home, hehardly talked anymore. He ate, smoked, went to bed,sometimes came back in the middle of the night for a briefand, of late, quite rough session of coupling. He was more aptto sulk these days, to fault her cooking, to complain aboutclutter around the yard or point out even minor uncleanlinessin the house. Occasionally, he took her around town onFridays, like he used to, but on the sidewalks he walkedquickly and always a few steps ahead of her, without speaking,unmindful of Mariam who almost had to run to keep up withhim. He wasn't so ready with a laugh on these outingsanymore. He didn't buy her sweets or gifts, didn't stop andname places to her as he used to. Her questions seemed toirritate him.
One night, they were sitting in the living room listening to theradio. Winter was passing. The stiff winds that plastered snowonto the face and made the eyes water had calmed. Silveryfluffs of snow were melting off the branches of tall elms andwould be replaced in a few weeks with stubby, pale greenbuds. Rasheed was shaking his foot absently to the tabla beatof a Hamahang song, his eyes crinkled against cigarette smoke.
"Are you angry with me?" Mariam asked.
Rasheed said nothing. The song ended and the news cameon. A woman's voice reported that President Daoud Khan hadsent yet another group of Soviet consultants back to Moscow,to the expected displeasure of the Kremlin.
"I worry that you are angry with me."Rasheed sighed"Are you?"His eyes shifted to her. "Why would I be angry?""I don't know, but ever since the baby-""Is that the kind of man you take me for, after everythingI've done for you?""No. Of course not.""Then stop pestering me!""I'm sorry.Bebakhsh, Rasheed. I'm sorry."He crushed out his cigarette and lit another. He turned upthe volume on the radio.
"I've been thinking, though," Mariam said, raisingher voice soas to be heard over the music.
Rasheedsighed again, more irritably this time, turned down thevolume once more. He rubbed hisforehead wearily. "Whatnow?""I've been thinking, that maybe we should have a properburial For the baby, I mean. Just us, a few prayers,nothing more."Mariam had been thinking about it for a while. She didn'twant to forget this baby. It didn't seem right, not to mark thisloss in some way that was permanent.
"What for? It's idiotic.""It would make me feel better, I think.""Thm youdo it," he said sharply. "I've already buried one son.
I won't bury another.
Now, if you don't mind, I'm trying to listen."He turned up the volume again, leaned his head back andclosed his eyes.
One sunny morning that week, Mariam picked a spot in theyard and dug a hole.
"In the name of Allah and with Allah, and in the name of themessenger of Allah upon whom be the blessings and peace ofAllah," she said under her breath as her shovel bit into theground. She placed the suede coat that Rasheed had boughtfor the baby in the hole and shoveled dirt over it.
"You make the night to pass into the day and You make theday to pass into the night, and You bring forth the living fromthe dead and You bring forth the dead from the living, andYou give sustenance to whom You please without measure."She patted the dirt with the back of the shovel.She squattedby the mound, closed her eyes.
Give sustenance, Allah.
Give sustenance to me.
Then there were days when the dreariness didn't seem quiteas unrelenting to Mariam. Days when the mere thought ofresuming the old patterns of her life did not seem soexhausting, when it did not take enormous efforts of will to getout of bed, to do her prayers, to do the wash, to make mealsfor Rasheed.
Mariam dreaded going outside. She was envious, suddenly, ofthe neighborhood women and their wealth of children. Somehad seven or eight and didn't understand how fortunate theywere, how blessed that their children had flourished in theirwombs, lived to squirm in their arms and take the milk fromtheir breasts. Children that they had not bled away with soapywater and the bodily filth of strangers down some bathhousedrain. Mariam resented them when she overheard themcomplaining about misbehaving sons and lazy daughters.
A voice inside her head tried to soothe her with well-intendedbut misguided consolation.
You 'll have others,Inshallah.You 're young. Surely you‘ll havemany other chances.
But Mariam's grief wasn't aimless or unspecific. Mariamgrieved forthis baby, this particular child, who had made her sohappy for a while-Some days, she believed that the baby hadbeen an undeserved blessing, that she was being punished forwhat she had done to Nana. Wasn't it true that she might aswell have slipped that noose around her mother's neck herself?
Treacherous daughters did not deserve to be mothers, and thiswas just punishment- She had fitful dreams, ofNma'sjinnsneaking into her room at night, burrowing its claws into herwomb, and stealing her baby. In these dreams, Nana cackledwith delight and vindication.
Other days, Mariam was besieged with anger. It wasRasheed's fault for his premature celebration. For his foolhardyfaith that she was carrying a boy. Naming the baby as he had.
Taking God's will for granted. His fault, for making her go tothe bathhouse. Something there, the steam, the dirty water, thesoap, something there had caused this to happen. No. NotRasheed.She was to blame. She became furious with herself forsleeping in the wrong position, for eating meals that were toospicy, for not eating enough fruit, for drinking too much tea.
It was God's fault, for taunting her as He had. For notgranting her what He had granted so many other women. Fordangling before her, tantalizingly, what He knew would give herthe greatest happiness, then pulling it away.
But it did no good, all this fault laying, all these harangues ofaccusations bouncing in her head. It waskojr, sacrilege, to thinkthese thoughts. Allah was not spiteful. He was not a petty God.
Mullah Faizullah's words whispered in her head:
Blessed is He in Whose hand is the kingdom, and He Whohas power over all things, Who created death and life that Hemay try you.
Ransacked with guilt, Mariam would kneel and pray forforgiveness for these thoughts.
* * *Meanwhile, a change had come over Rasheed ever since theday at the bathhouse. Most nights when he came home, hehardly talked anymore. He ate, smoked, went to bed,sometimes came back in the middle of the night for a briefand, of late, quite rough session of coupling. He was more aptto sulk these days, to fault her cooking, to complain aboutclutter around the yard or point out even minor uncleanlinessin the house. Occasionally, he took her around town onFridays, like he used to, but on the sidewalks he walkedquickly and always a few steps ahead of her, without speaking,unmindful of Mariam who almost had to run to keep up withhim. He wasn't so ready with a laugh on these outingsanymore. He didn't buy her sweets or gifts, didn't stop andname places to her as he used to. Her questions seemed toirritate him.
One night, they were sitting in the living room listening to theradio. Winter was passing. The stiff winds that plastered snowonto the face and made the eyes water had calmed. Silveryfluffs of snow were melting off the branches of tall elms andwould be replaced in a few weeks with stubby, pale greenbuds. Rasheed was shaking his foot absently to the tabla beatof a Hamahang song, his eyes crinkled against cigarette smoke.
"Are you angry with me?" Mariam asked.
Rasheed said nothing. The song ended and the news cameon. A woman's voice reported that President Daoud Khan hadsent yet another group of Soviet consultants back to Moscow,to the expected displeasure of the Kremlin.
"I worry that you are angry with me."Rasheed sighed"Are you?"His eyes shifted to her. "Why would I be angry?""I don't know, but ever since the baby-""Is that the kind of man you take me for, after everythingI've done for you?""No. Of course not.""Then stop pestering me!""I'm sorry.Bebakhsh, Rasheed. I'm sorry."He crushed out his cigarette and lit another. He turned upthe volume on the radio.
"I've been thinking, though," Mariam said, raisingher voice soas to be heard over the music.
Rasheedsighed again, more irritably this time, turned down thevolume once more. He rubbed hisforehead wearily. "Whatnow?""I've been thinking, that maybe we should have a properburial For the baby, I mean. Just us, a few prayers,nothing more."Mariam had been thinking about it for a while. She didn'twant to forget this baby. It didn't seem right, not to mark thisloss in some way that was permanent.
"What for? It's idiotic.""It would make me feel better, I think.""Thm youdo it," he said sharply. "I've already buried one son.
I won't bury another.
Now, if you don't mind, I'm trying to listen."He turned up the volume again, leaned his head back andclosed his eyes.
One sunny morning that week, Mariam picked a spot in theyard and dug a hole.
"In the name of Allah and with Allah, and in the name of themessenger of Allah upon whom be the blessings and peace ofAllah," she said under her breath as her shovel bit into theground. She placed the suede coat that Rasheed had boughtfor the baby in the hole and shoveled dirt over it.
"You make the night to pass into the day and You make theday to pass into the night, and You bring forth the living fromthe dead and You bring forth the dead from the living, andYou give sustenance to whom You please without measure."She patted the dirt with the back of the shovel.She squattedby the mound, closed her eyes.
Give sustenance, Allah.
Give sustenance to me.