Translated from the Dari by Dr. Zubair Popalzai
Sharif had selected the freshest leeks early in the morning for Rahima to make bolani. This kept her busy. They reminded her of the days when her brother Ibrahim’s wife used to come to their house, carrying leeks, after traveling the long distance from Azdhar to Zargaran. Her words one day were no different from her words the day before. She would say her piece and Rahima would listen.
“Rahima Jan, I know you are young and have hopes and dreams. But you have to accept that you have little chance of marrying—especially marrying a healthy young man.”
Rahima had heard such words directly and indirectly many times before. But she could not stop wishing for a family of her own, to be a housewife, and to raise children.
Ali was her cousin. They looked after the sheep together, gathered firewood, and fetched water from the spring. More importantly, they planned for their future. But times were unfaithful and did not move with Rahima’s wishes.
When Rahima turned fifteen, she lost her sight. Her green eyes that looked only at Ali could no longer see him or anything else. She was overtaken by darkness. Rahima’s parents could do nothing for their youngest daughter except take her to different mullahs and shrines. They made a pilgrimage and sacrificed their fattest sheep for the return of her sight, but the floaters in Rahima’s eyes were bigger than their fattest sheep. Kabul could have offered a solution, but it was a long way away, amid killing and war.
Everyone was thinking about their own lives and leaving their lands and houses for the valleys. Rahima’s pain was forgotten. Ali stopped talking to her about the number of sheep they planned to have; he didn’t teach her about fishing; they no longer went to the spring together. Rahima realized she should stop dreaming of marrying him.
Ten years passed. The Taliban were gone, and Ali had packed up and left even before they had. He went to Iran, and Rahima, lost in darkness, remained. She wondered to herself many times if she’d still have honored her love if the same had happened to him.
At twenty-five, Rahima had to open the gates of her heart again. Ibrahim’s wife made this possible. She wanted Rahima to marry her brother, Sharif, who had lost a leg and an eye to a land mine.
By this time, Rahima felt she was a burden on her own brother, although she had learned to use her hands and ears in place of her eyes. When cooking, she knew that the salt container was small and the sugar container was big. She knew that the knife always hung above the gas cooker and the potatoes were in a basket next to the stove. She could cook, do the laundry and sweep the house. She could go to the market from her brother’s house, using a cane.
But she still felt like a burden. His only possessions were a milking cow and a piece of land on which nothing but potatoes could be grown. He had young children to feed and empty pockets. To have waited ten years for someone who left without explanation was enough. She had to make a decision.
Rahima wore a white chador and the mullah recited the marriage rituals. Someone who was a stranger to her until an hour ago had now become her husband and she couldn’t imagine how he looked.
To provide for them, her husband Sharif sold vegetables on a small cart. He understood that he had to look after his family as able-bodied men did, even if it meant hours under a scorching sun, searching for shoppers to buy his vegetables. He didn’t complain about Rahima’s cooking. A year as his wife was long enough for Rahima to understand Sharif’s temperament. She had grown accustomed to less salty food, strong tea, and silence in the house. Her husband valued her, and the death of his previous wife was no longer a fresh wound for him.
Days passed normally for Rahima. She did all the chores around the house, as she had when she lived with her brother. She knew how to sharpen her ears instead of using her eyes. She could tell when her husband was coming by listening for the wheels of his cart. She could tell the water was boiling from the sound of the kettle. She would pour green tea for him although they had never spoken more than a simple greeting to each other. She did not find the housework hard; to bake two breads and wash two pots and cups was easier than the work at her brother’s house.
Rahima had cooked dinner and was listening to the radio in a corner when her old Nokia mobile rang. It was her brother. “Come to our place with your husband tomorrow. Ali has returned from Iran.” She couldn’t take in what her brother was saying. Her heart had started racing. It was as if a river had started flowing over a thirsty desert.
But the next day she remembered that she had a husband who had accepted her as she was. She prepared a breakfast of strong tea with sugar, and freshly baked bread. Even this held no appeal for her, though. She cleared the dishes, drew the cloth and left with her husband for her brother’s house.
When they arrived, Rahima heard the women of the family talking about Ali’s return. Rahima preferred to sit in the kitchen as usual, away from the gossip and rumors. She heard her sister-in-law telling her children not to be naughty. Rahima walked towards her voice and extended her arms to embrace her.
“Hello, Rahima Jan. How are you? When did you come? I didn’t notice.”
“Just now. It’s all right. You were busy with the children.”
“Why didn’t you stay in the hall?”
“I have no patience with the cheap talk of our womenfolk. I preferred to chat with you.”
“You did well. Welcome!”
Rahima and her sister-in-law were still talking when they heard a man’s voice. It was Ali greeting the men of the house in the next room. Rahima recognized his voice all too well, despite the years of separation. The men were all asking questions and Ali was answering them nonchalantly. He appeared to have no interest in answering their questions.
“So, Ali Jan, how is Iran?”
“It is good. The people live in safety. It is better than Afghanistan.”
Ali seemed to be looking for an excuse to escape. Rahima heard him ask her brother: “Cousin, do you have a pill for a headache?”
“Yes, wait. Let me get one from Hakim’s mother.”
“No, don’t bother. I will get it myself. Let me say hello to the women too and I will ask her for the pill.”
Ali greeted the women, then Hakim’s mother called to him from the kitchen: “Hello, Ali Jan. How are you? Welcome!”
“I am fine. How are you? How are your children?”
“Thank you, they are fine.”
“I have a little headache. Do you have a pill for headaches?”
“It is in the fridge. Let me get it.”
Ali, however, followed Hakim’s mother into the kitchen. Rahima felt his gaze fall on her. She was sitting in a corner, cleaning the dishes. She had heard their footsteps but Hakim’s mother said loudly to make sure: “Rahima Jan, look who is here! It is your cousin, Ali.”
Rahima stood up and quietly said hello. Her sister-in-law was aware of their past. To break the silence, she asked, “So, Ali Jan, no wife and kids? Where are they?”
Ali paused. “I am not married yet.” The voices of other women in the hall stopped Ali from continuing. “Rahima, Ali, Hakim’s mother, what are you doing in the kitchen? We are starving.” Ali had to take the pill and leave.
The men ate in their room, while the women ate in the hall. The women in the family ate eagerly, except for Rahima. Her appetite was also blind. She was asking herself questions. She felt as if time was moving slowly and this was the longest meal she had known. The voice of a woman praying at the end of the meal finally brought Rahima’s wait to an end.
The dishes were cleared. Rahima made an excuse of carrying the tray of glasses. She wanted to talk to her sister-in-law about Ali. She held the tray in one hand, using the other to find the kitchen. She put down the tray and called to her sister-in-law. But it was Ali’s voice that replied.
“Rahima, wait a minute. Take this money from me.”
“Why? Have I asked you for money?”
“But what?”
“It’s your money, the money I saved for the treatment of your eyes. I asked all the doctors I met if your sight could be cured and they all said that it was possible.”
Rahima did not hear anything else. Maybe she did not want to hear anything else. She felt neither happy nor sad.
“Thank you very much, cousin, but I am used to darkness now. There is no point anymore.”
She gave the money back to Ali and left without saying goodbye. Her husband held her hand as they got into a taxi. She no longer wondered if Ali had been thinking about her all these years. She had to worry about what to cook for dinner and how to convince her husband to remove his artificial leg at night.