“Mummy, get up. No sleeping. Get up.” Please let me sleep. Why can’t he sleep longer like regular kids? His baby hands push into my belly, he buries his head hard into my chest. I gasp for air. “Mikhail, please stop this. It hurts Mummy.” The pain of childbirth continues. I look at my watch – its only 7:40 am. What is wrong with him? Why isn’t he tired? “Mummy, where is my excavator?” Oh no, not now. I hear a knock on my door. I frantically look for a head scarf, dupatta, anything – the first thing I have access to is a bed sheet. I wrap it quickly around my head. I straighten my nightdress, it is never long enough, why does it always ride so bloody high?
“Raza.” It is Ahmad. He’s got nerve, coming into my room unaccompanied by a woman. He gives me a once over. He looks at my legs, not completely hidden, Afghan style. He smiles. I am sure he finds the bed sheet on my head entertaining. “Pisho, I am leaving for work. You don’t have to cover yourself in front of me.” Yes, I do. “Did you sleep well? What time will they come and pick you up? Good morning Mikhail.” He kisses Mikhail. He is so tender and gentle with Mikhail, even his own kids. I was not familiar with this side of him. “Look, this is an excavator.” Mikhail is so pompous. “He likes me, Pisho.” He is just a kid; he likes everyone. Ahmad looks hurt. I pretend not to notice. Attachment is not good – if I choose this nomadic life then I should not encourage attachment.
Mikhail is playing with his excavator and dumper truck. Ahmad is ready to leave. He looks at me for what seems like eternity. What is it? Isn’t he afraid of doing all this? Pashtun women know the many uses of hatchets, I am sure. “Pisho, they will ask you to move into their guesthouse. But I hope you will stay here with us. Mikhail needs company. Naveed and Haseena like him.” Yes, but people will talk. All those staring eyes. A foreign woman living in his home. His wife might hate me. “No one will touch you Pisho; no one can do anything to you or Mikhail as long as I am here. My family, my brothers, relatives, they will not speak in front of me. Do you trust me?” I do but I say I am not sure who or what to trust. He looks hurt again but I pretend not to notice. I am his guest. I should stop this. But I need to be tough, hard-hearted.
“Ok then. I will leave. I will call you.” He leaves quickly, he doesn’t look back. Soon I hear the clanging of blue metal. He is gone. I throw my head back on the pillow and look up at the wooden ceiling. All those plans I made since November. All came to naught, pissed upon. Life is truly what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans. Was it John Lennon, wonder where he stole those lines from? And now, I am here, all alone with Mikhail. Can I make it? A single mother in Afghanistan.“Mummy, I want mum-mum.” I look at him, his head at an angle, looking at the wheels of his precious front loader– he’s so beautiful, super-smart, articulate, selfish, arrogant and full of love for his mother. I still can’t get over how easily he forgot Mom and Dad after they cared for him for two years, so selflessly. He took one look at me and abandoned all of them, in a New York minute. It is the love I read about in folklore but hardly ever experienced. I wonder what I did to deserve so much love, so much forgiveness?
Someone comes in – its Haseena, followed by her mother. They smile at me. Salaams all around. We need to wash and freshen up. “Garam uba gwadam.” Kha. Smiles. They are tickled by my language and accent. “Haseenay, hagha barak rawda.” Soon, Haseena returns with a hand-held device and a bucket of water. She plugs one end of the device (what is this thing) into an outlet and puts the other end – a coil-like metal – into the bucket. “Pinzh minutuna.” I’ll probably have scalding-hot water by the end of that time. Now I will need to pry Mikhail away from his toys and convince him again, as I do every morning, that brushing and bathing is a good thing. I don’t look forward to it.
Its 9:30 am. Mikhail and I are both fresh and dressed up but I am constipated. I am holding it in. The outdoor loo – its just a hole on the floor – made me faint. The stench is un-bloody-bearable. Why am I not strong enough to brave nasty loos? I should try again tomorrow. I manage Mikhail and his bottoms with warm water from buckets in the fixture-less bathroom in the guest room. Shafeeqa is in the kitchen, no doubt preparing something fresh for us to eat. Naveed and Mikhail are playing with mud in the garden. In a few minutes, Mikhail will need cleaning again, I am sure. Thank god, there were biscuits I saved from our trip. he is calmer now. Haseena follows me around, looking up at me in amazement, hugging and kissing me every chance she gets. I wish I had had a daughter. I love Mikhail to pieces but what do I have in common with excavators and dumper trucks!
I need to call work, maybe arrange a meeting with Zee and Ana today. “Haseena jaan, meherbani wakdey, phone rawda, please.” She runs off to get her mother’s phone. She is back in a minute. I rummage through my handbag for my little black book. Haseena is fascinated by every move. I dial Zee’s number, Haseena’s poking through my bag. Three rings. Good lord, she has a tampon in her hand, she is looking at it curiously. I snatch it. “Na, Haseena, da daru dey.” She is satisfied. She resumes her digging.
“Ballay” A male voice answers. Finally. It is Zee. “Hello, Zee. This is Kavita.” “Where are you?” Don’t they know? “We are worried about you?” Why, didn’t Adam give them details? “Please call Ana and let us meet today. I am out of the office but I will be back by noon. How soon can you come?” I am ready now, can you send me a car? “Yes, we’ll arrange a pickup. Please give Ana your address. See you. Bye.” Haseena is opening my makeup pouch. She is interested in my lipsticks. I smile at her. How I wish I had had a daughter.
I dial Ana’s number. “Ballay”. Ana, its Kavita. “Kaveeeeeeta, how are you? Are you fine? We are so worried about you?” Why is everyone worried about me? “Are you coming? Can we send you the car?” Yes, to both. “Please give me your address.” I thought Adam has it. I don’t know where I am. I need Shafeeqa – I get up and walk out of the guest room and towards the kitchen. Shafeeqa has the tray ready with breakfast. I am so guilty. All this lying.
“Shafeeqa, da phone wakhla. Zama daftar. Sta kor cherta dey?” Kha, she takes the phone and starts speaking in Dari, presumably giving Ana her home address. Its a wonder she understand my Pashto at all; I really need to work on it. Soon, she hangs up. “Motor ba razi. Tashwish ma kawa.” Alright then. A little chow, clean Mikhail maybe and then, I cannot wait to be off…
It is noon before the car finally shows up. Qala-e-Vakil is not the easiest place to locate. The driver – Qadir – is scowling. I hate him instantaneously. Something about him. The way he looks at me, Naveed, Haseena and my muddy Mikhail, at my surroundings – with contempt, like he is somehow above us all. Later, I find out he lives in Qala-e-Vakil too. Bastardo! He looks at me with his mouth open – I am wearing a white kameez, a bright pink and white-polka dotted salwar and dupatta and my cropped denim jacket. Yes its strange but I had no choice; my kameez is sleeveless – ya haraam! Surprisingly, Shafeeqa chose the look. On top of it all, I am carrying my (matching, purely by accident) bright pink Mac in hand – hope Kabulis are not blinded by my look. “Mummy, no, no going.” Khudai pe amanis all around. Mikhail starts to cry but Shafeeqa holds him tight and shuts the door before I even sit in the backseat.
Driver Qadir looks back. “Daftar ta zu?” Where else? I would never go anywhere else with you. We drive off; now I feel like an Advisor!
After an hour of a rough ride with heavy traffic – narrowly escaping close shaves with other vehicles, speed bumps, ANA and ANP jeeps, US convoys and people – we reach Karte Se. I like Karte Se. It has big, wide roads and most NGOs have their offices and guesthouses here. I remember accompanying Ahmad for an interview at the USAID office in July 2009. Naturally, I could not go into the office but I drove his Toyota Corolla (automatic, of course) all over Karte Se. Its cleaner and safer than most suburbs of Kabul.
Suddenly, without warning, the car swerves and stops outside a large blue metal gate. Is this it? There are two armed security men, Afghans, coming towards the car. Salaams all around. The driver speaks to them in Dari. One of them looks in at me – my face and then my breasts and then back up. Somewhere between up and down, he says Salaam, not sure to what. He says something in Dari. The driver honks hard, a small window opens – a pair of piercing dark brown eyes is all I make out. I hear a loud clang and the metal door opens. So this is Afghan NGO security, not too shabby.
We drive through and stop outside a two-story building. I get out and thank the driver. He keeps looking at me with his bloodshot eyes. Wow, I really hate him. A chubby woman with blue eyes and a black shalwar kameez comes out to greet me on the steps. “You are Kavita. Salaamaleikum. I am Laila. Please come and meet Ana.” We walk out of the building, pass a couple of rose gardens with a few pomegranate trees thrown in. Its a beautiful property. Its an old home, with a main building, a guesthouse, kitchen and couple of smaller two story buildings. What a beautiful house it must have been. Now ABCD rents it. I love this place already.
We enter another two story building. There is a conference room with glass doors facing the entrance and another room to the right. Ana’s office. Lailuma knocks on the door and we enter. Salamaleikum Ana. She smiles and walk towards me and kisses me thrice, once on each cheek. She is strong, very pale skin, dark brown eyes, pale blond hair (I know now its natural) plump with chubby cheeks and an easy smile. “Kaveeeeeeta, how are you? Are you fine? Welcome to ABCD. We are so worried about you.” There’s that worry again.
“Please sit, eat something, drink something.” In a minute, there is a tray of biscuits, two apples and my favorite green tea in a huge flask on a wooden coffee table and I am sitting on a large cane sofa. She plops on a cane chair in front of me. I thank her and start talking – stop worrying, I live in Qala-e-Vakil (she frowns and shakes her head) with Ahmad and his family. Who is Ahmad? Ouch, another inevitable question. I tell her about Ahmad – our complicated relationship is simplified into a couple of long sentences. She is satisfied. “Yes, it is good to have someone you trust in Afghanistan. Your dress is so beautiful.” Thank you. Suddenly, a knock on the door.
A tall man enters. He is dark, bald, with a french beard. He is well built, maybe in his 50s, but looks much younger. Rare for an Afghan who has been a Mujaheedin commander. But Zee is a French national – probably walked all the stress off in the streets of Paris, munching on a Nutella crepe. He shakes my hand. “Welcome Kavita. How are you? Sorry I am late.” Ana and he exchange greetings – warm handshakes, big smiles. He plops on the only other cane chair. “So you have a matching Mac cover for every dress?”, he says, pointing to my pink shalwar . Good Lord, no. I laugh aloud. He looks surprised and then looks at Ana. “She is a good fit for ABCD – she has a laugh that matches yours. This is what we need.” Ana laughs too, she agrees. I like them both – they are easygoing for Afghans, at least.
Suddenly, Zee leans forward and looks at me intently. “You cannot live in Qala-e-Vakil.” Uh-oh, Ahmad is always bloody right. “Its too risky Kavita. There have been kidnappings. We cannot take the risk.” He is still looking at me. Now what? “I would ask you to move into my house. But you are younger and more attractive than we expected so people will talk. Sorry if I am blunt.” Its alright, its a compliment, I think. Ana is nodding vigorously. “You must move into the guesthouse. Convince these people you are living with. And move in to the guesthouse as soon as you can.” I think about Ahmad, Shafeeqa, the kids, the outdoor loo, Mikhail’s safety, the outdoor loo.” Alright then. I’ll do it for my son and my intestines. “Thank you.” Ana and Zee look satisfied. “Just relax in our guesthouse, you can start work from next week.” Sure. Can I leave now? I must get back to my son. “Of course. The driver will drop you.” We all stand, shake hands, more loud laughs. Zee contributes his throaty laugh as well. I like this group. Not stiff, very easygoing.
Ana and Zee walk me out to where the cars are parked, next to the blue metal gate. I can feel plenty of eyes on me, lots of curiosity. An unseen pair of eyes is checking me out from a window on the second floor. I’ll be introduced to him soon enough. Ana kisses me again. Zee and I shake hands. A new driver is assigned to me – Ismatullah, I like him. he’s friendly and he speaks Pashto as well. “Ta hindustani ye? Ta mug sara kar kawe?” Yes to both. I cannot wait to begin work. I decide to move to the guesthouse. It is private – I am the only one on the first floor – with a big bathroom, running hot and cold water, a cook, a cleaner and a gatekeeper with no weapons. I dont have to do anything. It is only a minute (truly) away from work (to the right) and Mikhail’s day care is a minute to the left. Its all too perfect and totally free. Now to speak to Ahmad. I don’t look forward to it.
We reach Qala-e-Vakil at 3 pm. Ismat makes one stop to get me a bottle of water. I take a long swig from it. I find out a few days later that foreigners should not drink in public to respect those who are fasting. I am so stupid! Ismat says nothing, only smiles. What a sweetheart! I call Shafeeqa so Ismat can get directions. Soon, we are outside my temporary lodgings. I thank Ismat and get out. Haseena is already at the door, smiling. I love her!
As soon as I enter the home, Haseena guides me to the family room, instead of my room which is closer. “Plar me raghley.” So he’s back. My heart races – I am thrilled he’s back. As soon as I come in, he stands up, comes toward me and shakes my hand. I love that all Afghan men instantly stand up when a woman enters the room. I don’t know if its only for foreigners but I love the way they do it. Last year, I went to Kunar to interview a provincial election candidate and there were around 10-15 men sitting on charpoys near the river. They all stood up as soon as I approached them. It exhilarates me, beyond belief, no clue why!
Shafeeqa enters the room within minutes. She keeps a hawk’s eye on her husband and me. Moving to the guesthouse is best. “So how was your meeting?” Ahmad is searching my face. He always knows when something’s up. “They want me to move Ahmad. Zee told me Qala-e-Vakil is unsafe for me. I have decided it is a good thing to move. What do you think?” Ahmad is silent. This is not what he wants. If I live so far away from him, he can’t keep an eye on me, have no control over my activities, who I meet, where I go, etc. He does not like it. But I am determined and he knows it. “Okay, if you want to, Pisho. I will not stop you. But I don’t want you to go.” He does not mention Naveed or Mikhail or Haseena and their wellbeing anymore.
Shafeeqa is looking at him intently. “Please tell her what we are talking about. Or she will think something’s up.” He tells her rapidly in Pashto. She looks at my face, she is searching for something. But whatever it is, she will not find it today. “Tell her I love her home and the children but I cannot stay. I will come here every Friday to see her and the kids.” He translates and she smiles and says something back. “She says come every week so that other annoying guests stop coming over.” I laugh aloud and so does she. Not even a smile from Ahmad.
After iftari, Ahmad gets up and leaves the room. Shafeeqa clears the floor and takes all the leftovers to the kitchen. I play with Naveed, Mikhail and Haseena, tickling them until they beg me to stop. Naveed kisses and bites my cheeks until Haseena pushes him away. That angers Mikhail so he beats Naveed. Then Haseena and I intervene – I convince my son he is the only man in my life and all is well again. I look at the time – its 8 pm. Ahmad is not back yet. I get up to wash and change before bed. The kids are still playing, let them. A few minutes of silence can’t hurt.
I get out. There is no light. Just the sound of the terribly hoarse and tuneless mullah talking about god-knows-what in Dari. I can make out the word “shaitan”. Thats you, buddy – what an awful voice! Suddenly, I feel a hand on mine. Where did he come from? “Pisho, if you ever need me, I am here for you. I am your slave. I have never forgotten what you did for me. I just want you to be happy.” With those words, he walks back into the house. My heart is racing, I can’t hear the mullah anymore.
Half an hour later, Mikhail and Haseena come into the room. They are both tired and sleep in a matter of minutes. I am awake and I will be for hours. I am happy I am leaving this house. Its too complicated. Too much tension. Finally, I feel like I am doing the right thing.
But its only after two more nights of tension, rising heartbeats and constipation that I leave Qala-e-Vakil. Its painful leaving the kids behind, leaving Shafeeqa – I really really like her, more than I ever thought I could. Ahmad is already at work. He kissed my forehead before he left – the risks he takes. “I am still your Pashto tutor.” I am relieved I am leaving. Attachments are not good. Driver Qadir’s back; how I hate him. I sit in the backseat of the car. I cannot wait to live in the guesthouse. It will be good for Mikhail. “Mummy, Naveed is not coming? Why is him not coming?” Ok, now I am not so sure. Driver Qadir turns back.”Zu?” Yes, please. I turn back. Naveed and Haseena look so sad. Shafeeqa has her face covered but I know she is relieved and sad, all at once. Just like I am.
We’re on our way. Mikhail begins his questions. “What is this? What is that?” Karte Seh, here we come. Life begins all over again.
