The Secret Sky: A Novel of Forbidden Love in Afghanistan Page 10

  “Okay . . . ,” I say as I scoop up the onions I’ve been chopping, using both hands. I drop them in the pot of oil. Immediately the oil starts crackling. I stir the pot with a wooden spoon, and the oil splatters, landing on my hand, burning it a little. I continue to stir the onions before daring to speak again, afraid of what the reaction will be. “Madar Jaan, I was wondering if I could go to Zohra’s house tomorrow to practice our studies.” I don’t dare look up as I say these words, continuing to concentrate on the onions as they begin to brown in the pot.

  “No!” my mother says firmly, walking over with the plastic bowl of diced potatoes and dropping the pieces in while staring at me. The pot sizzles, shooting up burning droplets of oil.

  “But, Madar, Bibi must be upset that I haven’t been coming.” I try one last time.

  But my mother ignores me this time, walking out with the distarkhan and setting it up for dinner outside.

  It’s another meal of silence. Except for the sounds of chewing, slurping and finger licking. Everyone eats but my baba, who just stares at the food.

  At the end of the night, we all head in and make our beds, and my father finally says something to me.

  “Fatima,” he says sternly.

  “Yes, Baba Jaan?” This is the first time in two days he has been able to look at me.

  “Don’t go to sleep yet. We need to talk to you after the children fall asleep,” he says.

  “Okay, Baba Jaan,” I respond as he turns to go back to his sleeping mat. My mother is sitting on her mat staring at us with angry eyes as she knits yarn booties for the boys.

  I tuck the boys in and give them kisses. Afifa waits for me.

  “Sing a song,” she says to me. I look at my angelic little sister and long to be her age again—to be so innocent and unaware of the world. She curls up in my lap, and I start humming a tune I learned years ago from Zohra’s radio. I start rocking my little sister, hoping it will take her a while to get to sleep. But she falls asleep as fast as she does every other night. I slowly lay her down and cover her with a blanket. I kiss her forehead and cheeks and brace myself for what’s next. I stare at my sleeping sister and stall as much as I can.

  “Fatima, come here,” my baba says, and I know I can’t put it off any longer. I can feel the thumping of my heart as I approach my parents. My mother puts down her knitting and almost looks excited.

  “Sit down, azizam,” my baba says with gentleness in his voice. The tone is so surprising that I can’t help but look at him. I sit down in front of the lamp, casting a shadow on their faces, but I don’t dare move. My eyes bounce between my parents. One who looks so tired and drained, and the other who seems to have found new energy as she stares at me.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask, still pretending not to know what happened.

  “Fato, we have something very important to speak with you about,” my baba says and then lets out a breath. I nod my head. “We’ve decided . . . your mother and I have decided . . . it’s time for you to get married.”

  “What?” I say, wondering for a brief moment if he has agreed to let me marry Sami. Perhaps that’s why he has been so quiet—he’s been making a plan with Kaka Ismail. I feel hope fluttering in my chest.

  “We know about your strong friendship with Samiullah,” my baba says, and that tiny flutter grows larger. “He approached me in town the other day and expressed his feelings for you. He said that he cares about you and would like to marry you.” Could it really be true? Have my parents agreed to Sami’s proposal?

  “He spoke with you?” I manage to whisper.

  “Yes, and he told me that the feeling belongs to him and not to take it out on you.” My baba presses his hand to his forehead. “But after speaking with Karim, I know that you have missed days of reading practice with Zohra and her grandmother.”

  “She did what?” my mother interjects. But my father ignores her.

  “I had hoped that I was wrong, but I believe you have been seeing that boy.” My stomach drops. Zohra must have told her father. I don’t blame her, but I don’t know what to say now.

  “Baba—” I get out before being interrupted by my mother.

  “You whore!” She gets up and slaps me in the face. I feel my lips quivering, and my eyes begin to drown in tears. More blows come my way. “Stop your fake tears, you stupid girl! How could you do this to us?”

  “Mossuma, stop it!” My baba holds her back.

  “But, Mohammad, she keeps shaming us!” she says before turning back to me. “Whose daughter are you? Who do you belong to? I can’t have given birth to such a disgusting whore!”

  My tears flow fast and harder now. “I’m sorry! I swear nothing happened. We’re just friends. We just talk. I swear on the Quran-e-sharif that we just talk. He is my friend! Like when we were kids!”

  “Like when you were kids? Mohammad, are you listening to this? What kind of man are you? Beat this filthy girl! She deserves to pay for throwing our name, our family and our dignity in the dirt! She let a snake slither into our lives, and now it will swallow all of us!”

  “Stop it! Both of you! You’ll wake up the children. I’m not going to hit her. I haven’t laid a finger on you your entire life,” my baba says, looking at me with watery eyes. “I’ve treated you like a precious vase. My beautiful . . . precious—” His voice cracks. It sounds as though he is about to cry. He quickly clears his throat and takes a deep breath. My baba’s words are worse than any beating, because I know I have hurt him. I can’t breathe I am crying so hard. I don’t make noise, but I can feel the spit from my mouth fall into my lap. “Fatima, we have decided to marry you to Karim. Your mother and I talked about it, and I have convinced him to take you as his second wife. It is the only way.”

  “K-k-karim?” I manage to stammer out. “But . . . but . . . but, Baba Jaan . . . you . . . you . . . said Sami wants to marry me.”

  “Karim is your best option for a good future. For a family who will take care of you. He didn’t want to take on a second wife but because of our friendship he said yes. Sami is not an option.”

  “But . . . but . . . why? You said that he cares for me. I care for him too. He is my best friend. He can take care of me.”

  “May the dirt fall on your head!” my mother hisses, wishing for my death. “Khak da saret!”

  “He is not the right choice for you,” my baba says. “I am your father, and I see things that you do not. I am making the right choice for you.”

  “But, Baba Jaan, you have known Sami all of his life. You know his family.” My tears and sadness are replaced with confusion and despair. “You know they’re good people. You know he’ll do anything to make me happy and treat me with respect,” I plead. Although I feel intimidated I find the courage to keep talking. “I don’t understand . . . Is it because he’s Pashtun? Didn’t you say that we are all God’s servants and no one is better than the other—that in the eyes of God, there are no differences between us? No matter our ethnicities? Baba Jaan?”

  “You don’t understand this world. You don’t understand the hardships you’ll face. This will be the easiest life for you. Karim will provide you a good home with food and family. He has agreed to take you in and care for you. This is for the best. That is my final decision. I don’t want to hear any more—from either of you.”

  • • •

  Lying on my toshak, I beg God to let me sleep, knowing that it is my only escape from the nightmare I am living. But my ghosts don’t leave me alone, even in my dreams.

  I dream of a future with Karim and without Sami. Living in a home with a family that once loved me but is now bitter to have a disgraced girl among them.

  Zohra has changed from my dear sweet friend into an enemy who hates me for marrying her father. In the dream, she ignores me as I beg for her guidance. I need her, but my friend won’t even talk to me.

  My khala Zain
ab treats me worse. She is angry that her husband has taken on a new wife after decades of her being his only wife, bearing his children and taking care of his mother. Unlike Zohra, she does speak to me, but it’s only to bark orders and slap me around. She uses me as a servant, one whom she hates. I endure the beatings and scolding from her.

  Bibi is the only person who doesn’t hate me. Instead she feels sorrow for another future lost—especially after she put so much hope in us . . . in me. I am no longer a part of her reading lessons; she takes back the book she has given me. And I watch from afar as Zohra continues the lessons I loved and she hated. Bibi can barely look at me, let alone talk to me.

  The person who feels the strongest toward me is Karim. But it’s not love he feels; it’s hatred and lust. Once my father’s closest friend and a dear uncle, he is now the center of my universe. A universe that has gone black. He is angry at the deal he made with my father, marrying a girl he feels is a whore. And he treats me as such . . . I see his body on top of mine as I scream and cry . . . I feel his sweat on my skin and taste tears when I wake up.

  My body still trembles in fear as I realize that this time my dream may come true.

  Fifteen

  SAMIULLAH

  I’ve been waiting all morning for her. After waiting all day yesterday. Hoping she will make her way out here. When I finally see her, I feel relieved.

  “Afo, bia . . . Afo, gak! Little one, come here,” I say to Fatima’s little sister. Grabbing her attention.

  I see her looking around. Looking for the sound of my voice.

  “Keeeeeeesht?” she shouts, asking who it is. “Jinn ashtee?” She asks if I am a spirit.

  “Afo, it’s me.” I poke my head and body out from behind the small tree that’s barely concealing me. When she finally sees me, she smiles and toddles over.

  “You’re the sleepy man!” Afifa says, smiling. “My madar says I can’t be friends with your family. Your baba wears a funny hat!” She starts to laugh again.

  “You can be friends with me. But you’re right, my baba does wear a funny hat.” I smile at her and pinch her cheek. “How are you, my little one?”

  “Good! I thought you were a jinn,” she says, looking down. “I got scared.”

  “Oh, Afo, don’t be scared. Not all jinns are scary. There are nice jinns too.”

  “Really?” She looks up with excitement.

  “Yes, of course. There are jinns who want to help you and protect you from the bad ones. And since you’re a good girl, the good jinns are always near you, protecting you from the naughty ones.”

  She starts smiling at me before looking around, possibly for jinns.

  “Afo, I need you to do something for me,” I say, getting her attention back. “But it has to be between you and me. It will be a secret. Are you old enough to keep a secret?”

  “Yes!” she shouts with enthusiasm. “I dokhtar kalon!”

  “Yes, you are a big girl,” I say. “But no one can know, not your mother, not your father and not even your brothers.”

  “No one?” Her thrill turns to astonishment.

  “Only one person can know—your sister, Fatima.”

  “Fato! Fato is my sister!” She smiles. “I love Fato!”

  “I know you do. But you have to remember, you can only tell Fato. This is a secret.”

  She nods at me with fervor.

  “Can you give your sister this letter? Remember, no one else can know. This is our big-person secret between me, you and Fato. Okay, janem?”

  “Kho!” She grabs the letter. “Will the bad jinns come after me if I tell someone else?” She looks frightened again.

  “Don’t worry about the bad ones. The good ones will protect you even more when you keep your promises. Do you promise to give this to your sister and not tell anyone else?”

  She nods at me and hides the letter in her payron before running back to their house. I hope this works. I have already caused Fatima so much torment. If this doesn’t work . . . if her parents find the letter . . . I can’t even imagine the danger that will come to us.

  Sixteen

  FATIMA

  I pray to God that this is all a dream. I can feel pain in my chest, like a bandage stuck to my breasts, wrapped tightly, suffocating my heart. I guess that’s appropriate, because right now my heart feels wounded and my body feels numb. It’s as if I’m a spectator, viewing my life from the outside. All that I’m experiencing can’t be real. I’ll wake up at any moment now and realize it’s just a bad dream and that none of this is true and that my father still loves me and that my life isn’t over.

  • • •

  Last night, after my father made his decree, my mother said that I was lucky they weren’t going to kill me because that was what I deserved. Her eyes ran through me like daggers and made me realize that if it were her choice, I would be dead. My father didn’t disagree with her; he just turned his head and went to bed.

  I felt her eyes burning through me when I woke from my nightmares, as if she was planning something. She knows she can’t hurt me with my father around, but I’m afraid of being alone with her.

  I decide to stay in our room when everyone leaves to go have breakfast. By now, my father must have gone out to the fields to meet Karim . . . my future husband. I still can’t believe it. There has to be a way to change my father’s mind. I’m piling all the sleeping mats on top of each other in the corner of the room when I hear footsteps marching toward me. My mother walks in with raging eyes, angry like a snake.

  “Salaam, Madar Ja—” I try to get the words out before she makes her way to me and grabs me by the hair. I can feel the strands ripping off at the roots, and I start to scream. She drags me through the open doors and slams my head against the dirt walls, causing the world around me to spin.

  “Shut up!” she yells at me as I desperately try not to fall to the ground, because I know it would rip my scalp even more. But she’s moving too fast, and my feet keep tripping over each other. We make it to the room with the tandoor, and she throws me to the floor.

  “Do you like being a whore?” she shouts. I notice the kettle is at full boil. I can hear the bubbles hitting the inside of the hot metal, and the steam is billowing from the spout. She lets go of my hair, and I instinctively reach for the kettle to take it off the fire. She stops me by kicking me in the gut. The jolt knocks me back and steals the air right out of my lungs.

  “Don’t touch that, you filthy slut,” she screams as she picks up the kettle and places it on the dirt. “Do you know how much you have shamed yourself? How much you have shamed this family? How much you have shamed me?”

  “I’m sorry,” I manage to whisper but I know it doesn’t matter. Nothing I can say will make my mother despise me any less.

  “You’re sorry?” she gets up and kicks my stomach again. This time her plastic sandal falls off her right foot.

  “I had plans for you! For our family!” she yells as she begins to pace the room. “There was a good family. They were wealthy. But they won’t marry their son to a whore!” I don’t dare let out a sound. I know any noise from me will agitate her even more. The longer I leave her in her world, the longer she won’t violate mine. “You didn’t even think of your sister! We won’t be able to marry her either now!”

  Could I have ruined Afo’s life too? In all likelihood, my mother may actually be right. Afo will always be attached to my disgrace. As I think about this I see that my mother has noticed my presence again.

  “Pull your sleeves up and stick out your arms. Do it! Do it now!” she yells. I’m startled by her intensity and quickly push my sleeves up as I watch her walk to where she has placed the kettle. She picks it up. Her arms are shaking so much she is spilling some of the hot liquid on to the floor. She makes her way closer to me. Is she—this can’t be happening. I don’t believe it. No, she won’t do it. She can’t do
it. I’ve heard stories of things like this happening to other girls in the villages, stories that made me cringe and count my blessings. But I never thought it would happen to me.

  My eyes begin to blur with tears . . . I see her turning the kettle, preventing more water from spilling to the ground, but I still refuse to believe she’ll do it.

  “I said stick out your arms!” she spits. My body is shaking uncontrollably, but I know I have to do as she says. I hold out my arms.

  “Pull your sleeves up higher!”

  I obey.

  She starts to tilt the kettle, and the scorching water falls onto my bare arms. The pain is searing, and I start screaming.

  “This is what whores deserve!” my mother says with a look of delight on her face. “This is what you deserve for shaming us!”

  I can stop screaming from the pain, but I can no longer see or hear anything. My vision blurs. The world goes silent. I feel the screams curdling in my throat, but I have no idea if they make a sound. The only thing I can sense is the excruciating pain. I know now what it feels like to be in hell.

  Instinctively I try to pull my arms away, but my mother stops pouring only long enough to grab me by the hair again and spit in my face. A second of relief. The thick wet gob lands on my left cheek and eye, blurring my vision even more. The tugging pulls out more strands of hair that she throws to the ground, but I don’t feel them being wrenched from my skull. The pain scorching my forearms drowns even that out.

  “Put your arms out, or I will pour it on your face!” I hear her voice through my daze. The look of Shayton in her eyes shows that she means it. I have no doubt she wants to kill me right now. The only thing saving me is how my father would respond. But she knows she can get away with this.