When Abdul Khaliq got wind of what happened, he told his driver and guard to bring us back to the compound. The bombing had scared me badly. Badriya and I stayed in our hotel room, afraid that other women parliamentarians would be targeted, and heard a hundred versions of yesterday’s events from our guard and the hotel staff.
She was dead. She was alive but had lost a leg. She was unscathed but three children walking by had been killed. It was the Taliban. It was a warlord. It was the Americans.
I didn’t know what to believe. Badriya believed each and every story wholly until the next one came along. My head spun. I prayed for Zamarud, thinking there was something inspiring about the way she had riled the entire parliament with her irreverent behavior. The guards came back; our driver was smoking a cigarette, his eyes red from the lingering smoke of the bomb. He’d been too curious to walk away. When he nodded that the car was ready, I sighed with relief. I wanted to hold Jahangir.
I imagined how my little boy might squeal and laugh when he saw me, how he might run to my arms. I couldn’t wait to hold him, praying he didn’t hate me for leaving. Though I regretted thinking it, I hoped I wasn’t like my mother. I didn’t want to abandon him and leave him to raise himself. I opened my small bag and checked for the ballpoint pen and a few sheets of paper I’d taken from the parliament building. I smiled, thinking how happy it would make Jahangir to scribble.
My son was the bright spot in my return to the compound. I went directly to Jameela’s room and called his name. He froze at the sound of my voice and toddled to greet me at the door, an innocent grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye.
“Maa-da! Maa-da!”
My heart melted to hear him call for me.
“Play ball outside! Maa-da!”
He wasted no time trying to recruit me to play with him. I smiled, wishing I could join him in the courtyard, where we could kick his brother’s soccer ball back and forth. I was close enough to childhood that playing still appealed to me. But they had just killed a chicken for Abdul Khaliq’s dinner guests and there was little time to pluck and clean the bird for tonight’s dinner.
“Forgive me, bachem, but maybe later I can come outside with you. Right now I have to get some work done. Maybe your brother can go outside with you.”
I think I secretly hoped that my work in Kabul would change how I was treated at the compound, but that idea was quickly dispelled. Bibi Gulalai stopped by the next day to make sure my time in the city hadn’t undone all the work she’d put into me.
“That was Kabul, this is here. In this house, remember who I am. There are no meetings or papers for you to look after here. Now go wash your face. You look filthy. How embarrassing.”
I sighed, nodded and walked away before she talked herself into a worse mood on my account.
I kept to my room. My last night here with my husband had been exceptionally unpleasant, exceptionally violent, and I didn’t want to put myself in his way again. I wondered if he’d let us go back to Kabul after this. I still didn’t know if Zamarud was alive or dead.
And something was happening at home. I didn’t know what it was but Jameela looked anxious and distracted. She was polite with Bibi Gulalai but she would quickly excuse herself. Bibi Gulalai seemed to be surveying our home with a discriminating eye. I asked Jameela but she smiled and changed the subject. Shahnaz, bitter because I had been allowed to travel to Kabul, was curt and snide with me. There was no use approaching her.
Through Jameela’s younger son, I sent word to Khala Shaima that I’d returned from Kabul. I wished very much to see her. Where before I was a listener, we could now exchange stories. I wanted to tell her about Zamarud and the bombing. And about Hamida and Sufia and the resource center. But a week passed and Khala Shaima had not come. I asked Jameela if she’d heard anything about my aunt but she hadn’t. A second week went by and still nothing.
I was worried and frustrated but there was nothing I could do. Already I was feeling the differences between home and Kabul. That taste of independence, even the possibility of it, made me yearn to go back.
Three weeks passed. Badriya and I were waiting on Abdul Khaliq’s decision. He was most likely going to allow us to return to Kabul and complete the remaining three months of sessions. He hadn’t said anything to Badriya and she was my source of information. Abdul Khaliq did not discuss these matters directly with me. In that respect, he treated me more like a daughter than a wife. It didn’t matter to me. The less interaction I had with him, the better.
Badriya finally approached Bibi Gulalai and asked her what was going on. Leaning against the living room wall, her shawl across her lap, Bibi Gulalai began to speak to her in a hush. When I paused by the doorway, the two of them looked up, annoyed.
“Go on, get to the carpets! And do it right this time. I don’t want them looking dingy,” Bibi Gulalai said.
I moved away from the door but lingered in the hallway.
“When did this come up?” Badriya said when I was out of view.
“Right when you all left. He knows her brother. I wish he never would have taken this stray. I don’t know what he wanted with Rahima. Such a worthless family.”
“I agree. Why he wanted a bacha posh for his wife, I’ll never understand. But, Khala-jan, why do you think he would want to get rid of her? She is the youngest here and he wanted her for something . . .”
“He will. I think he knows now that she was a mistake. And he wants to make up for it with this one. He’s going to marry her.”
“But why not just keep her and marry this girl?”
“Because he’s living by the hadith! He is a respected man in this village, in this province! He leads by example, so he is doing as the Prophet said. And the Prophet, peace be upon him, said that a man should take no more than four wives at a time. This wouldn’t have been a problem if he wouldn’t have taken that bacha posh.”
My throat went dry. What was my husband planning? A fifth wife?
“Well, God bless him. It’s admirable that he wants to be such an upright, devout Muslim.”
Bibi Gulalai gave a quick hum, agreeing with Badriya’s praise of her son.
“Just don’t say anything to Rahima about this. She’s wild enough as it is. We don’t need her or her insane aunt Shaima making a fuss about this. It’s none of their business anyway.”
“I won’t say a word but she’ll find out soon enough . . .”
The kids were coming down the hall. I slinked away from the door and melded into their footsteps.
I needed to talk to Jameela. Would Abdul Khaliq really try to get rid of me? How?
“Why? What did you hear?” Jameela said, her eyes narrowed.
I recounted the conversation for her. She listened intently.
“I don’t know anything more than that. Bibi Gulalai will only talk to Badriya, of course, her angel. The rest of us will only hear when something happens. But God help us all. If he really does this, it’s going to be a disaster.”
“But do you think he’ll take a fifth wife? He wants to get rid of me, Jameela-jan. Can he do that?”
“He can do—” Jameela started to say, but changed her response after a brief pause. “I don’t know, Rahima-jan. I really don’t know.”
We left it unsaid. If he wanted to take another wife without going over the limit, that would mean getting rid of one of us, and Bibi Gulalai had already made it clear that I was the expendable one. I’d once prayed my husband would send me back to my parents. Now that would mean leaving my son behind. Jameela had told me of one girl who had been sent back to her father’s house, her husband dissatisfied with her as a wife. The girl’s family, unable to tolerate the shame, refused to take her in. No one knew what happened to her.
Four weeks since our return. Jahangir came into our bedroom, where I was mending a tear in my dress, the blue housedress Badriya had warned me against wearing in Kabul. And after seeing how most of the women parliamentarians dressed, I could see why. But it was in fair shape and there was little chance of new fabric coming my way.
Jahangir called out to me. I looked up, surprised to see Khala Shaima hobbling a few steps behind him. She had never come into this part of the house.
“Khala-jan! Salaam, Khala Shaima-jan, you came! I was so worried about you!” I scrambled to greet her.
Khala Shaima put a hand on the door frame, leaning forward and steadying her breathing.
“Salaam . . . ah . . . salaam, dokhtar-jan. Damn Abdul Khaliq for building his compound so far from town,” she panted as I kissed her hands. I could hear the air whistle in her lungs. I quickly glanced in the hallway to be sure no one heard her curse my husband.
“I’m so sorry, Khala Shaima-jan. I wish I could come to you.”
“Eh, forget it. I’ll walk as long as my feet allow. Now, let me sit and get myself together. You must have something to tell me from your trip. And what the hell are you doing back here for so long?”
I told her about everything, the hotel, the guards, the buildings and the foreign soldiers. Then I told her about the bombing and the reason we came back.
“I heard about that on the radio. Bastards. Can’t handle a woman with a voice.”
“Who do you think was responsible?”
“Does it matter? They may not know who brought the bomb there but we all know why. She’s a woman. They don’t want to hear from her. The last thing this country needed is one more cripple. And that’s what we’ve got now.”
“She’s not dead? What happened to her?”
“You don’t know?”
“We heard so many things before we left. And here no one cares to find out. I’m sure Abdul Khaliq knows, but . . .”
“But you’re not going to ask him.”
I shook my head.
“It seems the bomb went off just next to her car. Exploded and killed one of her guards. But she survived the attack. I think they said her leg was burned but nothing more.”
“Is she going to come back to the parliament?”
“She wants to.”
I didn’t doubt that. Zamarud was not one to be scared off easily. I wished I could be more like her—so determined and brave.
And I should be, I thought. I’d been so self-assured when I was a bacha posh. Walking around with the boys, I feared nothing. If they had dared me to wrestle a grown man to the ground, I would have done it. I thought I could do anything.
And now I trembled before my husband, before my mother-in-law. I had changed. I had lost my confidence. The dress I wore felt like a costume, something that disguised the confident, headstrong boy I was supposed to be. I felt ridiculous, like someone pretending to be something he was not. I despised what I was.
Khala Shaima had read my mind.
“She’s taking risks and she just might be a total lunatic, but she’s doing what she wants. And I bet she doesn’t regret it. I bet she’ll keep doing it. That’s what people have to do sometimes to get what they want. Or to be what they want.”
Khala Shaima was like no one else. Everyone else thought Zamarud was a fool to say the things she did and an even bigger idiot for willingly offending men.
Carefully, quietly, I told Khala Shaima about Abdul Khaliq wanting to take another wife and what Badriya and Bibi Gulalai had said about me.
She said nothing but I could tell the news unsettled her. She looked anxious.
“Did they say how soon?”
I shook my head.
“Dear God, Rahima. This is not good.”
Her words made me more nervous.
“We have to figure something out. But keep this to yourself for now. Remember, the walls have mice and the mice have ears.”
I nodded, blinking back tears. I had hoped Khala Shaima would say something else. That the rumor was absurd. That I was safe here as Abdul Khaliq’s wife.
“Things don’t always work out the way you think they will. I bet you’ve been wondering what became of Bibi Shekiba. Shall I pick up where I left off?”
I half listened to my great-great-grandmother’s story. My mind was preoccupied.
I did have to figure something out. And I should be able to, shouldn’t I? Why did it matter if I wore a dress now? Why did it matter that I no longer bound my breasts flat? I wanted to be the same person I had been. Zamarud let nothing get in her way. She wore a dress and she had married and she campaigned to get a seat in the jirga. A seat she occupied as a real parliamentarian.
The dress didn’t hold her back as it did me. I felt restless. I thought how much more comfortable I would be if I could just button my shirt and walk into the street. If I could just slip into my old clothes . . . how much more capable I would be. Zamarud might have disagreed but the clothes meant something different to me because I’d lived in them.
The dress, the husband, the mother-in-law. I wished I could toss them all aside.