I was a little girl and then I wasn’t.
I was a bacha posh and then I wasn’t.
I was a daughter and then I wasn’t.
I was a mother and then I wasn’t.
Just as soon as I could adjust, things changed. I changed. This last change was the worst.
“Rahima-jan, remember that life has typhoons. They come and turn everything upside down. But you still have to stand up because the next storm may be around the corner.” I hadn’t changed much since I lost my son. Abdul Khaliq had become withdrawn. Bibi Gulalai was more present than before, making sure that the family was carrying itself properly. We had to mourn appropriately or our neighbors would talk. Her narrowed eyes fell on me, checking the color of my chador, the dress I wore and the expression on my face.
When my mind wandered, she caught me and told me to stop staring. She told me to get back to work. I couldn’t expect to just lie around forever. There were still floors to clean. There were clothes to wash. It would be good for me to get back to the routine.
A mourning mother should have been given her forty days to grieve, our visitors were surely thinking. Bibi Gulalai, mother to the most powerful man in our province, knew their concern was driven by fear, not respect, and she did not care.
Khala Shaima summoned the strength to visit me still. Each time she left, I wondered if she would make it home. And I worried that she wouldn’t make it back. I needed her. In a house full of people, I still felt totally alone. There was something on my mind, something I didn’t want to admit to myself or to Jameela. I didn’t know how to feel about it.
“Khala-jan, do you know what the people of Kabul think of us?”
“What are you talking about, Rahima?”
“Kabul is different from here. Just like Bibi Shekiba thought. It’s amazing how many cars, how many people, how many posters. There is so much noise there.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Khala Shaima looked concerned that I was losing my mind.
“I wonder what those people think of us. They’ve got buildings, banks, taxis, hotels. People from all over the world, construction companies working on new buildings. Beauty parlors and restaurants. Hospitals.”
“You’ve seen a lot of good places in your travels, haven’t you? Seems like you haven’t shared some stories with me!” She smiled wanly.
“And the parliament . . . sometimes I can hardly believe that so many people could come together in one room. And they talk about things, even some of the women. Sometimes they talk about things people in this village don’t think about in a lifetime.”
“Rahima-jan, what’s on your mind? Did something happen in Kabul?”
“Lots of things happen in Kabul. It is so different from here.”
Khala Shaima looked thoughtful. “Is that a good thing?”
I looked at her. Anything different from here was a very good thing.
“But there’s something else,” I said, my heart heavy with worry.
“There is?”
I nodded.
“What is it?”
I looked away, my eyes starting to tear.
“I see.”
I knew she did. Khala Shaima knew me better than anyone else.
“Well, that’s something to think about then.” She sighed heavily and shook her head.
I’d given it much thought. Thoughts I didn’t care to admit.
People close to death have little to lose. They can think things, say things, do things that others wouldn’t. Khala Shaima and I were both in that position, she because of her health and me because I felt no desire to open my eyes in the morning. A conversation began to take shape between us. A conversation that happened in unspoken words, in false words, in knowing glances. It was difficult to say what we were both thinking but it was something to be explored.
Because, as Khala Shaima had so often said, everyone needs an escape.