Najiba tiptoed around me. In my clearer moments, I pitied her. What should have been a joyful, exciting courtship had been spoiled by my rancorous behavior. I spoke few words and did not smile much. I was preoccupied with finding a way to communicate with my beloved without compromising our secret.
By the evening light, I wrote out Rabia Balkhi’s blood-soaked poem on a piece of paper. I curled the paper into a ball and snuck out of my room at nightfall, winding my way past the cherry trees, under the grapevines, and into the nesting of mulberry trees against the wall. I paused and, hearing nothing but the distant croaking of a frog, I threw the balled paper over the wall where I hoped my secret love would find it and realize my devotion was unwavering despite those trying to keep us apart.
For days, I searched for scraps of paper on my side of the wall. I imagined the different ways he might send a message to me.
I KEPT DREAMING EVEN AS KOKOGUL USED THE ROLLS OF GOLD tulle and the silver tray she’d kept in her drawer to make Najiba’s shirnee. I kept dreaming even on the day she placed the tray before an elated Bibi Shireen in our humble living room, my sisters looking on with quiet excitement as Najiba entered the room. She looked demure and kept her eyes to the ground as Bibi Shireen kissed her cheeks and embraced her tightly. She kissed her mother-in-law’s hand.
I waited for him to protest but he said nothing. I realized that he would make no valiant motion to save us. This was not the love story I’d imagined.
How could I not stare at my sister’s fiancé? After days of waiting alone in the orchard, how could I not gawk at the man I now believed had duped me into thinking I meant something? He was handsome, actually, which made everything worse. He had chestnut-colored hair and soft, poetic eyes. In his wide-lapel coffee-colored suit, he looked confident—but not overly so. His eyes moved around the room, lighting on guests and relatives just long enough to acknowledge their presence. Not once—I noticed because I’d made it my mission to—did his eyes fall on me or Najiba. I was quite creative in interpreting this observation.
Finally, there was no wall between us. This was what we’d wanted, wasn’t it? He kissed my father’s hands and KokoGul’s hands. My father welcomed him with a hearty embrace. Returning to his mother’s side, he had looked up and given his bride a shy smile. I watched it all. I even went around the room offering colorful foiled chocolates to the few people who’d attended. Bibi Shireen’s sister. Bibi Shireen’s husband. My aunts and uncles.
KokoGul, wary of my erratic behavior, had asked Sultana to serve tea to the guests. She might have been right not to trust me with boiling water.
“Najiba,” Bibi Shireen rejoiced tearfully. “From this day on, you are my daughter. You have two mothers, my beautiful girl. You have brought great happiness to our family!”
My beloved. My face reddened to think of our secret conversations. I felt small and stupid. He’d probably seen my love poem and shaken his head at my foolishness. He’d probably laughed that he’d let things go so far between us or maybe he was embarrassed that he’d ever considered me, the motherless stepsister, for a wife.
I wanted to run out of the room. I wanted to tear at the tulle and create such a scene that I would finally be heard. I wanted to spill my pain on the walls.
I stared on blankly, the slow realization that KokoGul had been right settling in my heart. Jealousy had curdled the love I had for my sister. It was her moment of happiness, a union between her and a handsome young man from a loving family and I could not share in her celebration because of the dark thoughts thundering in my mind.
One thought echoed louder than all the others: Najiba now had two mothers and I had none.
CHAPTER 11
Fereiba