The engagement party for two of Kabul’s most prominent families was held in the late spring high on a hill in Kabul in the ballroom of the Bagh-i-Bala, the former summer palace of the Iron Amir that Zahir Shah had converted to a restaurant. It was a perfect setting for a party, a multi-domed structure of arcaded verandas, mirrored walls, and lavish interiors decorated with flowers carved in stucco and plaster. Daoud and his wife, Zainab (the king’s sister), attended and, of course, their daughter Zarlasht, who was still Afsana’s best friend. Afsana’s large family was there in force, and I had many uncles, aunts, and cousins there as well as dozens of friends.
As we made our entrance, the traditional Afghan marriage song began. Afsana wore a powder blue dress, I a suit and tie. Flashbulbs popped; guests applauded. I still have the photo of those two who had so much to look forward to and who were blissfully unaware of what was to come.
At dinner we fed each other slices of maalida, a cake of breadcrumbs and sugar, the symbol of the sweetness of our union. The guests dined on a buffet of teka kebab (beef seasoned with ginger and garlic), shaami kabob (chicken marinated in cumin, garlic, and cardamom), and several kinds of rice. After dinner Afsana and I took turns cutting slices of rice pudding cake for our guests. When the band began playing again, we moved from table to table, visiting our guests.
Near the end of the evening, everyone joined in a traditional Pashtun dance set to the rhythm of mogholi, a tune of seven beats unique in all the world. We formed a circle, dancing round and round, clapping and whirling, as the music grew faster and faster, until the elders grew tired and left the dance floor to the young.
Eight months later our marriage ceremony in Jalalabad was a much quieter affair. Only my father attended as a witness for my side, and Afsana’s two brothers—representing her father, who was trapped in Kabul by bad weather—attended for Afsana. We all turned to face the mullah.
“God is God, and Muhammad is His messenger.” The mullah praised Allah and asked for His protection. Afsana and I looked into each other’s eyes, her brothers at her side, my father at mine.
“I, Rahman Popal, offer my son, Baryalai, in marriage to Afsana Sadaqi.”
“On behalf of Jilani Sadaqi, I accept Baryalai Popal’s marriage to his daughter Afsana,” one of the brothers said.
“Baryalai, have you chosen this young woman for your wife?”
“I have,” I answered.
“You have heard?” the mullah asked the witnesses.
“We have heard.”
“Afsana, have you chosen this young man for your husband?”
“Baleh, I have. I offer myself in marriage to you, Baryalai, in accordance with the instructions of the Holy Koran and the Holy Prophet, peace and blessings be upon Him.”
“You have heard?” the mullah asked the witnesses again.
“We have heard.”
“I pledge my honesty, sincerity, obedience, and faith to you, Afsana.”
“I pledge my honesty, sincerity, obedience, and faith to you, Baryalai.”
“May Allah bless this union and be with you and protect you always,” the mullah said.
My father had begun the ceremony, and Afsana’s brother concluded it: “For Jilani Sadaqi, I accept Baryalai Popal to be my son-in-law.”
I returned to Habibia High, but Afsana was now a married woman and had to attend a high school for married women. Every night we ate dinner with Baba and Babu in their dining room. As wonderful as my mother was, in truth she was not a good cook. She was not a bad cook but insisted on serving very bland food out of concern for Baba’s health.
Baba never spoke.
Afsana knew my father’s feelings toward her and tried to win his approval by coming home from school at noon to prepare his lunch. We grow rice in abundance in Afghanistan, and we love to eat it, so Afsana often cooked qabeli pilau, his favorite rice dish. Afsana called her mother each day to discuss new recipes and became a very good cook. Her mother helped out as well, preparing meals and sending them over for dinner. Baba so enjoyed these meals, I hoped he would soften toward Afsana like her soaked rice. But tribe and blood are very powerful things, and a coldness remained in his heart against this stranger to family and tribe whom I had married against his advice and desire.
The chill never thawed.