Nor does He disrupt, mislead or torment
Upon our shoulders, all malaise and grief
Are naught but the harvest we have chosen to reap
“Do you understand what these words mean?”
“Yes, Padar-jan.”
“Then tell me, Saleem-jan, what do they mean to you?”
“That I should not act like a child.”
“Saleem-jan, I’m sorry that when you wake up every morning, this is the world that you see around you. I’m sorry that this is the Kabul, the Afghanistan that you are seeing. I wish you could have learned to take your first steps without rockets firing over your head. This is no place for a child, but because of that, it’s all the more important for you to step up. You must find a way to make good of this situation—to reap a noble harvest.”
I could see the resentment on Saleem’s face. All he was ever told was no. This much he’d shared with me on more than one occasion. The things he could do were few; the things he couldn’t do were endless. But Saleem bit his tongue and did not protest the injustice that even Mahmood admitted.
“Saleem-jan, my son, now is the time to learn to look after your own actions. Your mother and I watch over you, but every day you are less and less of a boy.”
Sometimes I argued with Mahmood that he needed to be firmer with the children. Why they feared his punishments, I could not understand. He did little more than lecture them and give them disappointed looks. But the children respected him, as did I. So many nights the children and I nestled around him, vying for space to listen to his stories. His arms wrapped around us all, tying us together in one package.
I lost myself in those moments, loving my husband more than I’d ever imagined I could. I often missed Khala Zeba and wished I could have thanked her for putting me in his arms.
In the night, with the children breathing softly beside us, Mahmood rubbed the knot in my back.
“Saleem will be a great man—he has a lion’s spirit in his young eyes,” he whispered. “Before we know it, the day will come when he’ll be man of a house with little ones of his own. Do you know what I pray for, janem? I pray that day comes neither too early nor too late.”
I took Mahmood’s hands from my back and wrapped them around my waist.
“And I pray that it’s in my naseeb to see that day.”
“God willing, we’ll both see that day,” I managed to get out before the lump in my throat swelled.
CHAPTER 14
Fereiba
A MONTH LATER, WE MARKED THE HOLIDAY OF EID. DISTANT RELATIVES and friends had been dropping by to pay their customary visits despite the city’s somber mood. When we heard the knock at the gate, we thought nothing of it. Mahmood went to answer it, and I instinctively put a pot of water to boil for tea.
But the people at the door were neither friends nor family.
Gruff-looking men had barged into our courtyard and sauntered into the foyer.
“So this is the home of the engineer,” one sneered, his words thick with distaste.
I gasped at the sound of men’s voices booming from within our home. The teakettle fell with a clang, water pooling on the floor.
Saleem and Samira were at my feet drawing pictures on scraps of paper. I shot them a look and pointed upstairs. Frightened, they scurried up the steps without the slightest protest.
I threw on my burqa and looked into the living room.
Three men had entered our living room and were eyeing our belongings contemptuously. They wore loose-hanging caftans and pantaloons in khaki and gray, drab colors that made their pitch-black beards and machine guns stand out. Their guns were slung casually over their shoulders. The tallest of the three was twirling Mahmood’s tasbeh, his worry beads, around his finger. When they caught sight of me, an azure apparition, in the doorway, they ordered me back into the kitchen.