He was my hamsar.
With the men barking at him to follow, I turned to Mahmood’s face—the blue grid of my burqa invading the most precious, private moment of our married lives. There was so much to say. His eyes whispered to me in a way only a hamsar could.
Take care of our children, janem. I will do what I can to make this right. I’m sorry I’ve brought this upon us. I would give anything to stay at your side.
My husband was escorted out of our home and into the blackest night of our lives. The men slammed the door behind them. Two porcelain teacups rattled off the shelf and smashed to the floor, leaving shards of white and pastel in their wake.
I heard frantic footsteps upstairs and knew Saleem had run over to the window. I never asked him what he saw. If I know my husband, he was conscious of his children watching him being led away. He would do nothing to make that night any uglier than it forever would be in their minds.
CHAPTER 15
Fereiba
SALEEM TIPTOED TO ME. I HAD SLIPPED THE BURQA OFF MY HEAD and slumped to the floor. I’d heard the car’s engine hum into the distance. They’d taken Mahmood with them. My son sat beside me, and Samira watched from a safe distance. When Saleem could bear the quiet no longer, he broke the silence.
“Madar-jan . . .” he whispered.
I stopped him before he could say anything else. I had no answers.
“My son, go on back upstairs with your sister and sleep. I’ll wait for your father.”
I knew he was scared. I knew he wanted to be useful. He wanted to do things that would make Mahmood proud.
Samira was just nine years old on that night. She was an extension of me. Her moods ebbed and flowed in response to my own, just as the tides respond to the moon. If I brooded, Samira quieted, blowing her dark bangs away from her crinkled forehead. If I was happy, my daughter walked with a skip in her step. On that night, Samira became silent and trembled. With her hands drawn into tight, little fists, tears darkened her pillowcase.
SALEEM WOKE AT DAWN AND FOUND ME ON THE LIVING ROOM couch. I sat with my head against the wall. I cannot imagine what I must have looked like to him.
“Madar-jan?”
He had to call out to me twice.
“Yes, Saleem,” I said. My throat was dry and raw.
Saleem hadn’t known what to say. He simply felt obligated to break the silence and gauge the situation.
“Did you sleep, Madar-jan?”
I sat with my hands wrapped around the round of my belly; my swollen feet barely reached the floor.
“Yes, my son.”
He looked doubtful and offered to bring me tea. I looked at Saleem, his hands wringing behind his back, his face knotted with fear. It was time for me to be a mother again.
“It is early still,” I’d said. “It would be good to pray for your father.”
We didn’t bother to heat the water for the ablutions.
“In the name of God . . .” I whispered and began to wash my hands, mouth, and nose. I steeled myself against the icy touch of the water. I would not show weakness. I washed my face, behind my ears, my hands and feet.
With a rehearsed rhythm, Saleem and I stood, kneeled, and bowed as we mouthed the phrases we’d both memorized very early in our lives. I could feel my eyes glaze as I thought of the previous night.
I didn’t know if my husband would ever be returned.
Our home froze in time, waiting for a sign.