When the Moon Is Low(18)

MY HEAD ON MY PILLOW THAT NIGHT, I THOUGHT OF RABIA Balkhi, Afghanistan’s legendary poetess from the tenth century. Rabia, a true princess, lived lavishly in a palace with servants at her feet. When her father died, her brother became her guardian. Rabia lived in extravagant solitude, filling her empty days with verses of her own creation.

But love can grow even in a place where there is hardly air to breathe, and Rabia fell in love with a handsome young man, Baktash. Their affair, a hidden exchange of love letters and poems, was discovered by Rabia’s brother, who ordered his sister to be taken to the bathhouse. Her wrists were slashed as she lay in the steamy waters.

Rabia, in her own blood, wrote her last poem on the walls of the bathhouse and declared her undying love for Baktash.

Love was not something we could talk about. We explored the phenomenon only in poems and song lyrics or imported Bollywood movies, where as the story became more tragic and the lovers more star-crossed, the love between them became more profound. This was what we were taught, though only incidentally. The dead mother, the unwanted suitor, the boy in the orchard—the requisite elements were coming together to make my life an epic love tale. My adolescent heart churned with the nervous anticipation of tomorrow.

With eyes tightly closed, I tried to recall Rabia’s final poem but could only remember the last two lines:

When you see things hideous, fancy them neat.

Eat poison, but taste sugar sweet.





CHAPTER 8


Fereiba


KOKOGUL WAS AT THE FRONT DOOR WHEN I CAME OUT OF MY room. Her voice carried through the hallway, her volume rising. Within seconds, she’d reached a frantic pitch.

She ran past me. I reached over to steady the teacups she’d sent rattling on the glass nesting table.

“Stay here. Watch your sisters and pray that this news is not true! I am going out to make sense of this. I’ve never heard such a story . . . if this is a lie, I’ll curse that busybody. Dear God, this cannot be!”

She threw her chador over her head and whipped the end over her shoulder. The door slammed behind her before I could ask where she was going or what the terrible news was. I went about my chores with an uneasy feeling in my gut. My sisters were busy with their school lessons and would know nothing more than I’d already overheard. I would have to wait for KokoGul to return.

When two hours passed, I grew more apprehensive. I went through the courtyard and opened our front gate. Our quiet street offered no clues. A few children chased a feeble mutt, pelting it with scraps of trash. An older man walked by with a cane. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

Padar-jan came home earlier than usual and found me beating the dust from the pillows in the living room. I couldn’t sit still.

“Where is your mother? Don’t tell me she’s gone out to the market again.”

“No, Padar-jan, she went to call upon a friend, I think. She didn’t say much—just that she’d heard some terrible news that she hoped wasn’t true.”

“Terrible news?” He looked alarmed, both by KokoGul’s sudden departure and by the anxiety in my voice. “Did she say what the news was?”

I shook my head.

“She was in a hurry. She flew out the door without explaining.”

My father sighed heavily and asked if I’d prepared dinner. He decided we would not get worked up before we knew what we were talking about. My father would swallow a spoon of salt smiling if it meant keeping the house in peace.

Padar-jan was hungry so I summoned my siblings and set the table, wondering if KokoGul would make it back before we started to eat. Cumin steam swirled from the platter of hot rice I was carrying when she swept into the room. KokoGul threw her chador onto the back of a chair with a huff. Her voice boomed in the small space.

“Ooohhh God, our merciful Allah! What horrible news!” Her head swayed from side to side as she sat next to my father. “What tragic and unexpected events have befallen us . . . I still cannot believe such a thing would happen!”

Padar-jan furrowed his brow, impatient with her dramatic prelude.

“Just say what it is, KokoGul. What happened?”

KokoGul ignored his frustration and went on with her story at her own pace.

“I was home today making sure these girls were doing their homework and on top of that there was a lot of laundry and cooking to do and I had my hands full, as usual,” she added. Padar-jan sighed heavily and I wondered when KokoGul had last washed so much as a sock or stirred a pot.

“Habiba-jan came knocking on our door to borrow some flour—sometimes I think we could make a healthy living supplying her with all the ingredients she’s forgotten to pick up from the sundries store—anyway, I gave that foolish woman what she needed and she started to chatter about the unfortunate family arranging for a fateha in two days for their young son and what a sad story it was. I asked her who it was that had lost a son and she told me that it was that wealthy family from across town, Agha Firooz.”

My fingers gripped the edge of the table tightly. I could feel the blood drain from my face. I waited for her to continue.

“When she said that, my head spun and I just about fainted right there at her feet but I pulled myself together and asked her if she knew which of their boys it was and how it had happened. She was more interested in getting home with the flour and she didn’t know much else anyway so I told her to run along. I went to Fatana-jan’s house since her brother-in-law lives next door to Agha Firooz’s family.