MadamJr rom that night on, Mariam and Laila did their chorestogether. They sat in the kitchen and rolled dough, choppedgreen onions, minced garlic, offered bits of cucumber to Aziza,who banged spoons nearby and played with carrots. In theyard, Aziza lay in a wicker bassinet, dressed in layers ofclothing, a winter muffler wrapped snugly around her neck.
Mariam and Laila kept a watchful eye on her as they did thewash, Mariam's knuckles bumping Laila's as they scrubbedshirts and trousers and diapers.
Mariam slowly grew accustomed to this tentative but pleasantcompanionship. She was eager for the three cups ofchai sheand Laila would share in the yard, a nightly ritual now. In themornings, Mariam found herself looking forward to the soundof Laila's cracked slippers slapping the steps as she came downfor breakfast and to the tinkle of Aziza's shrill laugh, to thesight of her eight little teeth, the milky scent of her skin. IfLaila and Aziza slept in, Mariam became anxious waiting. Shewashed dishes that didn't need washing. She rearrangedcushions in the living room. She dusted clean windowsills. Shekept herself occupied until Laila entered the kitchen, Azizahoisted on her hip.
When Aziza first spotted Mariam in the morning, her eyesalways sprang open, and she began mewling and squirming inher mother's grip. She thrust her arms toward Mariam,demanding to be held, her tiny hands opening and closingurgently, on her face a look of both adoration and quiveringanxiety.
"What a scene you're making," Laila would say, releasing herto crawl toward Mariam. "What a scene! Calm down. KhalaMariam isn't going anywhere. There she is, your aunt. See? Goon, now."As soon as she was in Mariam's arms, Aziza's thumb shotinto her mouth and she buried her face in Mariam's neck.
Mariam bounced her stiffly, a half-bewildered, half-gratefulsmile on her lips. Mariam had never before been wanted likethis. Love had never been declared to her so guilelessly, sounreservedly.
Aziza made Mariam want to weep.
"Why have you pinned your little heart to an old, ugly haglike me?" Mariam would murmur into Aziza's hair. "Huh? I amnobody, don't you see? Adehatl What have I got to give you?"But Aziza only muttered contentedly and dug her face indeeper. And when she did that, Mariam swooned. Her eyeswatered. Her heart took flight. And she marveled at how, afterall these years of rattling loose, she had found in this littlecreature the first true connection in her life of false, failedconnections.
* * *Early the following yeah, in January 1994, Dostumdid switchsides. He joined Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, and took up positionnear Bala Hissar, the old citadel walls that loomed over the cityfrom the Koh-e-Shirdawazamountains. Together, they fired on Massoud and Rabbaniforces at the Ministry of Defense and the Presidential Palace.
From either side of the Kabul River, they released rounds ofartillery at each other. The streets became littered with bodies,glass, and crumpled chunks of metal. There was looting,murder, and, increasingly, rape, which was used to intimidatecivilians and reward militiamen. Mariam heard of women whowere killing themselves out of fear of being raped, and of menwho, in the name of honor, would kill their wives or daughtersif they'd been raped by the militia.
Aziza shrieked at the thumping of mortars. To distract her,Mariam arranged grains of rice on the floor, in the shape of ahouse or a rooster or a star, and let Aziza scatter them. Shedrew elephants for Aziza the way Jalil had shown her, in onestroke, without ever lifting the tip of the pen.
Rasheed said civilians were getting killed daily, by the dozens.
Hospitals and stores holding medical supplies were gettingshelled. Vehicles carrying emergency food supplies were beingbarred from entering the city, he said, raided, shot at. Mariamwondered if there was fighting like this in Herat too, and, if so,how Mullah Faizullah was coping, if he was still alive, andBibijo too, with all her sons, brides, and grandchildren. And, ofcourse, Jalil. Washe hiding out, Mariam wondered, as she was? Or had hetaken his wives and children and fled the country? She hopedJalil was somewhere safe, that he'd managed to get away fromall of this killing.
For a week, the fighting forced even Rasheed to stay home.
He locked the door to the yard, set booby traps, locked thefront door too and barricaded it with the couch. He paced thehouse, smoking, peering out the window, cleaning his gun,loading and loading it again. Twice, he fired his weapon intothe street claiming he'd seen someone trying to climb the wall.
"They're forcing young boys to join," he said.
"TheMujahideenare. In plain daylight, at gunpoint. They dragboys right off the streets. And when soldiers from a rival militiacapture these boys, they torture them. I heard they electrocutethem-it's what I heard-that they crush their balls with pliers.
They make the boys lead them to their homes. Then theybreak in, kill their fathers, rape their sisters and mothers."He waved his gun over his head. "Let's see them try tobreak into my house. I'll crushtheir balls! I'll blow their headsoff! Do you know how lucky you two are to have a manwho's not afraid of Shaitan himself?"He looked down at the ground, noticed Aziza at his feet. "Getoff my heels!" he snapped, making a shooing motion with hisgun. "Stop following me! And you can stop twirling your wristslike that. I'm not picking you up. Go on! Go on before you getstepped on."Aziza flinched. She crawled back to Mariam, looking bruisedand confused. In Mariam's lap, she sucked her thumbcheerlessly and watched Rasheed in a sullen, pensive way.
Occasionally, she looked up, Mariam imagined, with a look ofwanting to be reassured.
But when it came to fathers, Mariam had no assurances togive.
* * *Maeiam was relieved when the fighting subsided again, mostlybecause they no longer had to be cooped up with Rasheed,with his sour temper infecting the household. And he'dfrightened her badly waving that loaded gun near Aziza.
One day that winter, Laila asked to braid Mariam's hair.
Mariam sat still and watched Laila's slim fingers in the mirrortighten her plaits, Laila's face scrunched in concentration. Azizawas curled up asleep on the floor. Tucked under her arm wasa doll Mariam had hand-stitched for her. Mariam had stuffed itwith beans, made it a dress with tea-dyed fabric and anecklace with tiny empty thread spools through which she'dthreaded a string.
Then Aziza passed gas in her sleep. Laila began to laugh, andMariam joined in. They laughed like this, at each other'sreflection in the mirror, their eyes tearing, and the moment wasso natural, so effortless, that suddenly Mariam started tellingher about Jalil, and Nana, andthe jinn. Laila stood with herhands idle on Mariam's shoulders, eyes locked on Mariam'sface in the mirror. Out the words came, like blood gushingfrom an artery. Mariam told her about Bibi jo, Mullah Faizullah,the humiliating trek to Jalil's house, Nana's suicide. She toldabout Jalil's wives, and the hurriednikka with Rasheed, the tripto Kabul, her pregnancies, the endless cycles of hope anddisappointment, Rasheed's turning on her.
After, Laila sat at the foot of Mariam's chair. Absently, sheremoved a scrap of lint entangled in Aziza's hair. A silenceensued.
"I have something to tell you too," Laila said.
* * *Maeiamdid not sleep that night. She sat in bed, watched thesnow falling soundlessly.
Seasons had come and gone; presidents in Kabul had beeninaugurated and murdered; an empire had been defeated; oldwars had ended and new ones had broken out. But Mariamhad hardly noticed, hardly cared. She had passed these yearsin a distant corner of her mind A dry, barren field, out beyondwish and lament, beyond dream and disillusionment- There, thefuture did not matter. And the past held only this wisdom: thatlove was a damaging mistake, and its accomplice, hope, atreacherous illusion. And whenever those twin poisonous flowersbegan to sprout in the parched land of that field, Mariamuprooted them. She uprooted them and ditched them beforethey took hold.
But somehow, over these last months, Laila and Aziza-aharamilike herself, as it turned out-had become extensions of her, andnow, without them, the life Mariam had tolerated for so longsuddenly seemed intolerable.
We're leaving this spring, Aziza and I. Come with us, Mariam.
The years had not been kind to Mariam. But perhaps, shethought, there were kinder years waiting still. A new life, a lifein which she would find the blessings that Nana had saidaharami like her would never see. Two new flowers hadunexpectedly sprouted in her life, and, as Mariam watched thesnow coming down, she pictured Mullah Faizullah twirlinghisiasbeh beads, leaning in and whispering to her in his soft,tremulous voice,But it is God Who has planted them, Mariamjo. And it is His will that you tend to them. It is His will, mygirl.
Mariam and Laila kept a watchful eye on her as they did thewash, Mariam's knuckles bumping Laila's as they scrubbedshirts and trousers and diapers.
Mariam slowly grew accustomed to this tentative but pleasantcompanionship. She was eager for the three cups ofchai sheand Laila would share in the yard, a nightly ritual now. In themornings, Mariam found herself looking forward to the soundof Laila's cracked slippers slapping the steps as she came downfor breakfast and to the tinkle of Aziza's shrill laugh, to thesight of her eight little teeth, the milky scent of her skin. IfLaila and Aziza slept in, Mariam became anxious waiting. Shewashed dishes that didn't need washing. She rearrangedcushions in the living room. She dusted clean windowsills. Shekept herself occupied until Laila entered the kitchen, Azizahoisted on her hip.
When Aziza first spotted Mariam in the morning, her eyesalways sprang open, and she began mewling and squirming inher mother's grip. She thrust her arms toward Mariam,demanding to be held, her tiny hands opening and closingurgently, on her face a look of both adoration and quiveringanxiety.
"What a scene you're making," Laila would say, releasing herto crawl toward Mariam. "What a scene! Calm down. KhalaMariam isn't going anywhere. There she is, your aunt. See? Goon, now."As soon as she was in Mariam's arms, Aziza's thumb shotinto her mouth and she buried her face in Mariam's neck.
Mariam bounced her stiffly, a half-bewildered, half-gratefulsmile on her lips. Mariam had never before been wanted likethis. Love had never been declared to her so guilelessly, sounreservedly.
Aziza made Mariam want to weep.
"Why have you pinned your little heart to an old, ugly haglike me?" Mariam would murmur into Aziza's hair. "Huh? I amnobody, don't you see? Adehatl What have I got to give you?"But Aziza only muttered contentedly and dug her face indeeper. And when she did that, Mariam swooned. Her eyeswatered. Her heart took flight. And she marveled at how, afterall these years of rattling loose, she had found in this littlecreature the first true connection in her life of false, failedconnections.
* * *Early the following yeah, in January 1994, Dostumdid switchsides. He joined Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, and took up positionnear Bala Hissar, the old citadel walls that loomed over the cityfrom the Koh-e-Shirdawazamountains. Together, they fired on Massoud and Rabbaniforces at the Ministry of Defense and the Presidential Palace.
From either side of the Kabul River, they released rounds ofartillery at each other. The streets became littered with bodies,glass, and crumpled chunks of metal. There was looting,murder, and, increasingly, rape, which was used to intimidatecivilians and reward militiamen. Mariam heard of women whowere killing themselves out of fear of being raped, and of menwho, in the name of honor, would kill their wives or daughtersif they'd been raped by the militia.
Aziza shrieked at the thumping of mortars. To distract her,Mariam arranged grains of rice on the floor, in the shape of ahouse or a rooster or a star, and let Aziza scatter them. Shedrew elephants for Aziza the way Jalil had shown her, in onestroke, without ever lifting the tip of the pen.
Rasheed said civilians were getting killed daily, by the dozens.
Hospitals and stores holding medical supplies were gettingshelled. Vehicles carrying emergency food supplies were beingbarred from entering the city, he said, raided, shot at. Mariamwondered if there was fighting like this in Herat too, and, if so,how Mullah Faizullah was coping, if he was still alive, andBibijo too, with all her sons, brides, and grandchildren. And, ofcourse, Jalil. Washe hiding out, Mariam wondered, as she was? Or had hetaken his wives and children and fled the country? She hopedJalil was somewhere safe, that he'd managed to get away fromall of this killing.
For a week, the fighting forced even Rasheed to stay home.
He locked the door to the yard, set booby traps, locked thefront door too and barricaded it with the couch. He paced thehouse, smoking, peering out the window, cleaning his gun,loading and loading it again. Twice, he fired his weapon intothe street claiming he'd seen someone trying to climb the wall.
"They're forcing young boys to join," he said.
"TheMujahideenare. In plain daylight, at gunpoint. They dragboys right off the streets. And when soldiers from a rival militiacapture these boys, they torture them. I heard they electrocutethem-it's what I heard-that they crush their balls with pliers.
They make the boys lead them to their homes. Then theybreak in, kill their fathers, rape their sisters and mothers."He waved his gun over his head. "Let's see them try tobreak into my house. I'll crushtheir balls! I'll blow their headsoff! Do you know how lucky you two are to have a manwho's not afraid of Shaitan himself?"He looked down at the ground, noticed Aziza at his feet. "Getoff my heels!" he snapped, making a shooing motion with hisgun. "Stop following me! And you can stop twirling your wristslike that. I'm not picking you up. Go on! Go on before you getstepped on."Aziza flinched. She crawled back to Mariam, looking bruisedand confused. In Mariam's lap, she sucked her thumbcheerlessly and watched Rasheed in a sullen, pensive way.
Occasionally, she looked up, Mariam imagined, with a look ofwanting to be reassured.
But when it came to fathers, Mariam had no assurances togive.
* * *Maeiam was relieved when the fighting subsided again, mostlybecause they no longer had to be cooped up with Rasheed,with his sour temper infecting the household. And he'dfrightened her badly waving that loaded gun near Aziza.
One day that winter, Laila asked to braid Mariam's hair.
Mariam sat still and watched Laila's slim fingers in the mirrortighten her plaits, Laila's face scrunched in concentration. Azizawas curled up asleep on the floor. Tucked under her arm wasa doll Mariam had hand-stitched for her. Mariam had stuffed itwith beans, made it a dress with tea-dyed fabric and anecklace with tiny empty thread spools through which she'dthreaded a string.
Then Aziza passed gas in her sleep. Laila began to laugh, andMariam joined in. They laughed like this, at each other'sreflection in the mirror, their eyes tearing, and the moment wasso natural, so effortless, that suddenly Mariam started tellingher about Jalil, and Nana, andthe jinn. Laila stood with herhands idle on Mariam's shoulders, eyes locked on Mariam'sface in the mirror. Out the words came, like blood gushingfrom an artery. Mariam told her about Bibi jo, Mullah Faizullah,the humiliating trek to Jalil's house, Nana's suicide. She toldabout Jalil's wives, and the hurriednikka with Rasheed, the tripto Kabul, her pregnancies, the endless cycles of hope anddisappointment, Rasheed's turning on her.
After, Laila sat at the foot of Mariam's chair. Absently, sheremoved a scrap of lint entangled in Aziza's hair. A silenceensued.
"I have something to tell you too," Laila said.
* * *Maeiamdid not sleep that night. She sat in bed, watched thesnow falling soundlessly.
Seasons had come and gone; presidents in Kabul had beeninaugurated and murdered; an empire had been defeated; oldwars had ended and new ones had broken out. But Mariamhad hardly noticed, hardly cared. She had passed these yearsin a distant corner of her mind A dry, barren field, out beyondwish and lament, beyond dream and disillusionment- There, thefuture did not matter. And the past held only this wisdom: thatlove was a damaging mistake, and its accomplice, hope, atreacherous illusion. And whenever those twin poisonous flowersbegan to sprout in the parched land of that field, Mariamuprooted them. She uprooted them and ditched them beforethey took hold.
But somehow, over these last months, Laila and Aziza-aharamilike herself, as it turned out-had become extensions of her, andnow, without them, the life Mariam had tolerated for so longsuddenly seemed intolerable.
We're leaving this spring, Aziza and I. Come with us, Mariam.
The years had not been kind to Mariam. But perhaps, shethought, there were kinder years waiting still. A new life, a lifein which she would find the blessings that Nana had saidaharami like her would never see. Two new flowers hadunexpectedly sprouted in her life, and, as Mariam watched thesnow coming down, she pictured Mullah Faizullah twirlinghisiasbeh beads, leaning in and whispering to her in his soft,tremulous voice,But it is God Who has planted them, Mariamjo. And it is His will that you tend to them. It is His will, mygirl.