Kamal and Saleem spent more time together off the soccer field. With the connection between Kamal’s father and Hakan, Madar-jan was even happier about Saleem’s new friend. She wanted him to be social and enjoy his time away from work. When Kamal invited Saleem to join him at his second cousin’s wedding in the village, Saleem was hesitant. He wasn’t certain how the rest of Kamal’s family would receive him, the migrant worker with manure under his fingernails. Madar-jan encouraged him to go.
Weddings in Kabul were major social events, dampened only in the last few years by the stringent restrictions of the Taliban. Madar-jan had always loved getting dressed up, the banquet halls, the music, and the sight of the bride and groom embarking on a new life together. Though she did not speak much about her own wedding, Saleem knew it was the first time she’d been the center of attention and that it had marked a break from the hardships of her childhood. More times than he could count, Saleem had heard the story of his parents’ wedding—the car draped in flowers and ribbons, the drummer who led their celebratory procession down the street, the music that had gone on until four in the morning.
“What will you wear, Saleem? Let’s see here . . .” she said as she rummaged through his duffel bag and pulled out a pair of pants. She continued digging. “Here’s your button-down shirt. This should do. Why don’t you try it on?”
“Madar-jan, the wedding is three days away.”
“What if it doesn’t fit? Better we know now than on that day.”
The pants were undeniably short and the shirt hung loose on his shoulders. Madar-jan let out the one-inch hem and restitched it so that his ankles were not completely exposed. The pants and shirt would have to do.
On Friday night, Saleem walked the fifteen minutes to Kamal’s house, his palms sweaty. On his ride back from the farm, he’d started to imagine what it would be like as a total stranger amid a Turkish family’s private celebration. He had serious doubts about going. Afraid of disappointing Kamal, he chose to push his apprehensions aside.
Saleem would be joining Kamal and two of his cousins to drive to the wedding together. The rest of the family had already left. The celebration was being held at a farmhouse outside of town, and the boys were eager to get there before dinner was served.
Kamal’s cousins were older, in their twenties, but cut of the same unruly cloth. They were chain-smoking young men who told lewd jokes and went home to mom’s cooking every night. The cousins barely raised an eyebrow to see Saleem, reassuringly disinterested. They parked the car and headed into the house, hoping that they had timed their arrival well to miss the religious ceremonies and make it for the food and music that would follow.
They were right on time. The bride’s and groom’s families were shaking hands and congratulating one another. The smell of roasted meats and baked cheeses wafted through the air. Food was to be served shortly and this left time for the guests to wander around, for relatives to catch up on gossip, stories of the old days, and complaints about the unseasonably hot weather.
Saleem drank it all in. This could be an Afghan wedding, he thought to himself. It really was no different. A circle of men chatted in one corner. Women were laughing in another. Turks and Afghans were more alike than he had thought.
The food was delicious. Since Saleem had barely had time to eat anything when he came home from work, he arrived at the party ravenous. He kept his eyes on his plate. Quite a few girls in the room had caught his attention, but he did not want to be caught ogling them. Although they were dressed modestly, their calf-length dresses showed off the shapes of their youthful curves. One girl had chestnut hair that curled around her face and brushed against her cherry lips. Saleem made extra effort not to stare in her direction.
“Do you want some more food? I’m going for seconds. Or maybe you’re worried you’ll split your pants?” Kamal said, nudging Saleem with his elbow as he stood up.