Enjeela Ahmadi-Miller - The Broken Circle - A Memoir of Escaping Afghanistan

We drove through New Delhi, taking in the sights. The streets were jammed with cars and rickshaws and bicycles and people on the move. Shoppers darted in and out of stores along the street, carrying packages and bags. The sidewalks were full of displays of fruit and vegetables of every color and size, of clothes on racks, of electronics, toys, and so many people selling things from carts and stands. The city streets teemed with traffic—horns honked, cars sped by, and rickshaws weaved around traffic jams. With my head out the small window, it was easy to notice that not only was India a busy and colorful place, but it smelled different than any place we had been before; spicy curry filled the air. And music was everywhere. It seemed a nation possessed with it. A thrill shot through me remembering all the Bollywood movies I used to watch in the kitchen with Noor. The images of those dancers singing and dancing their way through their troubles came readily to mind. I wanted to jump out and grab some of the excitement.

We passed through neighborhoods full of small shops, clogged with pedestrians, and into sections with tall glass buildings and streets filled with expensive cars.

Padar grew pensive as we traveled the entire length of the city. I knew that when he grew quiet and serious, he was turning over something difficult in his mind. His unlit pipe still clacked around in his mouth. He hadn’t seen or talked to Mommy in a few years, just like we hadn’t.

After a long drive we turned into a neighborhood that reminded me of the diplomatic section of Islamabad only nicer. All down the wide, tree-lined street, we passed elaborate homes, two- and three-story, surrounded by fences and gates, with emerald-green lawns and colorful flowers. Many had expensive cars in the driveway.

The rickshaw driver stopped in front of an impressive two-story home that had large windows and was surrounded by a white fence. We piled out onto the sidewalk. After unloading our luggage, the driver took off, leaving us alone in the quiet of the peaceful street.

“Where are we?” Zulaikha asked.

“Greater Kailash,” Padar said. He nodded at the house in front of us. “This is where your mother lives. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

In many ways it was nicer than our home in Kabul. It appeared to have a lot of bedrooms, with so many windows on the second floor. Padar gazed up at it. He had never told us he had any hesitations about finally seeing Mommy, but as he stood there rubbing his chin, taking in the fine home she lived in, there was a look of concern on his face.

While he stared up at the bright windows reflecting the afternoon light, I surveyed the neighborhood. Down a block, several kids were out in the street, kicking a ball and running, shouting at each other with carefree voices. I began to look around for a pear tree.

With a resigned shrug, Padar said, “All right, let’s go.” We followed him to the side of the house, where the driveway led up to a wrought-iron gate. Huddled together, we all peered through the iron bars.

Down the cement drive, along the side of the house, a tall, thin woman in an elegant housedress played with a child. My heart thudded at the sight of her wavy dark hair. It was Mommy. She looked healthy and was dressed so primly, just the way I remembered her from Kabul. With her was a lanky girl with straight black hair that swished around as she leapt to catch a big blue ball that the two bounced back and forth.

“Who is that girl?” I whispered to Padar.

“That’s Vida,” he said, his voice cracking a bit as if he was surprised at how much she had grown. I could hardly believe my eyes. She had been so small the last I had seen her, and now she was a vivacious little girl, so full of life and grown-up.

Just then the girl stopped bouncing the ball and turned toward all of us gathered by the gate as if we were waiting for permission to enter.

“Enjeela?” she cried, and began to run toward us. Mommy turned toward the gate and took us all in, cocking her head as if trying to figure out who this group of disheveled kids was standing at her gate. We had been wearing the same clothes awhile now, and our shoes were caked with dirt. We looked every bit like we’d had many days of hard traveling. She clasped a hand over her mouth, as if to keep herself from crying out.

Vida ran to us, her white dress rippling in the air. “Enjeela.” She reached through the bars of the gate to take my hands. The moment our hands touched, every bit of love for her came tumbling back like we’d never been apart.

“Open the gate,” I said. She unlatched it, and Padar swung it open. As Vida hugged me, Mommy made her way down the driveway, shuffling as fast as she could. Padar had told us of her heart surgeries, and while she looked healthy, she didn’t move very quickly.

“My babies,” she said, reaching out to each of us, touching each of us on the face. “My babies,” she said again and again. “You’re here. I can’t believe you’re here at last. We’ve been waiting for you for so long.” Her voice, the expression on her face of relief, told me she was so happy to see us. I stood frozen at her words, not expecting anything more from her but wondering how much she remembered of me.

She came back to me and touched my cheek, placing her warm palm to my skin. “Enjeela,” she whispered. “You’ve returned to me.” Her touch was warm, comforting, welcoming. I fell into a moment of happiness, like melting inside. I closed my eyes, holding in tears, and held her hand to my cheek. She did remember me.

She brushed my hair down with her other hand, and she and I looked at each other. Her dark eyes glistened as she looked me over. “I’ve prayed for this, Enjeela. You’re finally home.”

We all followed Mommy inside, where she immediately set to work in the large kitchen, preparing a meal for us all. I stood by, watching her go through cupboards, retrieving utensils and ingredients. I had no idea where anything was. This whole setup was so different from our kitchen in Kabul. I felt like a foreign child in a foreign home.

Ahmad Shah, who stood taller than I remembered, escorted us around the house, pointing out the bathrooms, where they kept the towels, the laundry room. As we strolled through, glancing into the rooms, I remembered Abbas’s daughters, Daliyah and Habibah, touring us around their sumptuous home, and Habibah turning to us with her dark eyes and warm way, saying, “Please, make yourself at home.” Now Ahmad Shah, with his sparkling black eyes, turned to me, and said those exact same words: “Make yourself at home.” I couldn’t shake the notion that I was a guest in a settled home life, an intruder in a well-ordered happiness.

Mommy laid out an authentic Indian meal for dinner: chicken masala, aromatic rice, and roti, an unleavened bread made from stone-ground flour. Every flavor was new to me: bright, warm, comforting, and deeply satisfying. We ate in silence, trying to extinguish our hunger built up from so much travel. I ate every bit on my plate and more. Mommy sat on the other side of the table watching over us. She looked different. I tried to discern how, but I didn’t want to stare. Abbas had fed us as lavishly till we felt like royalty, and like him, Mommy sat across from me now, smiling with broad satisfaction.

Soon the meal was finished and the plates cleared. Mommy stood and announced that it was time for us to shower. I’m certain we appeared and smelled the part of weary travelers. The thought of a hot shower and clean sheets in a warm bed was very inviting.

Upstairs, Mommy showed me to the bathroom. I was surprised when she insisted that she help me. This was so unlike her. In Kabul, Shapairi was the one assigned to keep Vida and me bathed and dressed in clean clothes. So now having Mommy help me undress, and then to have her wash my back as I let the warm water run over my body, made me a bit uncomfortable. I sat in the bath as she ran the soapy washcloth up and down my weary skin. She was treating me as a child.