Andrea Busfield - Born Under a Million Shadows

As all the adults stood around being polite to one another, I heard that Hazrat had spent the night in Kabul, staying with a business partner of his. Apparently my sister’s husband did clever things with wood—so clever, in fact, that he could sell them. And in Khair Khana he presented my mother with a beautiful brown chest carved with flowers and singing birds.

Unfortunately, we didn’t get to see my sister’s baby, Daud, because he was in Kunar with his grandmother, but Mina promised she would bring him on her next visit. As she spoke she quickly looked at her husband as if she had forgotten something, but he nodded his head and it put the smile back on her face.

In the short time I’d known him I already liked Hazrat Hussein, which I suppose was just as well now that we were family.

When my mother and Shir Ahmad performed the nekah , the kids were made to wait outside, because those were the rules. Jahid’s brothers immediately went off to play in a ditch in front of the house because there was a dead cat in it. Jahid and I disappeared around the corner, well away from the house, so he could teach me how to smoke.

Although cigarettes were pretty disgusting and tasted of dead bukharis , I realized that if I was ever to become a man there were a lot of disgusting things I’d have to get used to. Hair downstairs was one of them, according to Jahid. Worse than that, one day I would wake up to find my cock had been sick.

“Your sister’s pretty good-looking,” Jahid said as he tried to blow smoke rings. “I tell you what, if she hadn’t been kidnapped, I wouldn’t have minded marrying her myself—being blood and all that.”

I looked at Jahid, with his rolling eye, lazy leg, and stumpy brown teeth, and thought that if my sister had accepted his offer, I’d have handed her over to the Taliban myself.

“So, how’s the job going?” I asked, wanting to change the subject before my cousin forgot himself and started making sexy talk about the sister I’d only just got back.

“Slow,” he admitted, “but I’m starting to do more filing now, the paperwork and all that, and my boss says he’ll get me on one of those computer courses soon.”

“Shir Ahmad’s been going to computer school.”

“Well, it is the future.” Jahid nodded. “There’s not an office in Kabul that doesn’t have a computer these days. And you wouldn’t believe the amount of porn you can find on them. There are pictures, even films, of every kind of shagging you’ve never even thought of. There’s women shagging men, women shagging women, men shagging men, women shagging midget men, women shagging dogs, and I’ve even seen women sticking marrows up their—”

“Fawad!”

My mother’s voice rang out loud and clear, and Jahid and I quickly killed our cigarettes. “Here,” he said, handing me some chewing gum that was supposed to taste of banana but actually tasted of plastic. It was pretty disgusting as well. We used to sell it to the foreigners on Chicken Street for a dollar, proving people will buy anything if you look sad enough.

After my mother’s nekah , we said good-bye to Mina, who had to return to her baby. As we all held on to one another, it was both happy and sad, but Hazrat Hussein gave my mother a telephone number so we could call her any time we liked, which then made it more happy than sad.

Shir Ahmad returned to his house and my mother to our house. The next day, after the wedding party, my mother would finally move to her new house, and I would follow a week later—for a reason I didn’t want to know. While she’d spend the week doing stuff I didn’t want to know about, my mother thought I might like to stay at my aunt’s house. She couldn’t have been more wrong if she’d tried.

“Mother, the last time I was in that house Jahid’s father hit me on the head with a water jug, and one of their kids peed in my bed, and let’s not forget that my aunt’s food nearly killed you. Really, I’m not sure you’ve properly thought this through. But that’s okay, I know you’re not thinking straight, what with your mind being on your new husband rather than the happiness of your son and his chances of living to the end of the week.”

My mother smiled at me—which showed how much she had changed since she spat at her sister’s feet and left Khair Khana—and she played a little with my hair.

“Okay, Fawad, you win. If Georgie gives her permission, and promises to look after you, you can stay in the house for a week. I suppose it will give you time to say your goodbyes.”

We have a saying in Afghanistan: “One day you see a friend, the next day you see a brother.” After nearly a year living with the foreigners, I now had two sisters and one brother, and though their ways were sometimes strange and their behavior not in any way to be copied if you were a good Muslim, I loved them all dearly, each and every one of them. So when my mother and I returned home to tell them in Dari (with my English translation) that she had got herself married and would be moving out the next day and taking me with her a week later, they all looked at us with blank faces.

I think they call it shock.

Georgie was the first to recover her mind and remember her manners, and she gave my mother a hug.

“Congratulations, Mariya,” she said. “That’s fantastic news.”

“Yes, wonderful. Congratulations,” added James.

“Absolutely! Congratulations. I hope you have a wonderful life together,” said May. Then, just as everyone was getting used to the idea, she added, “I might as well tell you all now. I’ll also be leaving soon. I’m pregnant.”

If my mother’s news had been a surprise, May’s announcement hit everyone like a grenade. I translated May’s words for my mother. Her eyes grew wide, but she said nothing.

Again, Georgie was the first to recover.

“Congratulations, May! That’s… amazing.”

“It’s not just amazing; it’s a bloody miracle,” added James, stepping forward to give her a hug. “Who’s the father?”

“Well…” May smiled shyly. “The baby will be mine and Geri’s, but there’s a small chance it could be born with a French accent.”

I shook my head. In many of their ways the foreigners were just like Afghans. They laughed and cried, they tried to be good with one another, and they loved their families. But in other ways they were just plain crazy and trying their absolute hardest to burn for all eternity. Worse than that, they all seemed so damned pleased about it.

IN MY COUNTRY we wear the salwar kameez —basically a long shirt over baggy trousers. There’s a lot of cloth involved, more than you would believe, and it’s our traditional dress. These days I usually wear jeans like the older boys who copy the Iranian pop stars on TV, but there are times—say, at your mother’s wedding party—when the top of your trousers dig into your stomach because you’ve eaten so much it’s grown to the size of Kandahar, and it’s quite possible that at any moment you will be cut in two by the waistband. That’s when you realize that Afghans are a lot cleverer than Westerners. Not only do we believe in the One True God; we also make clothes big enough to fit Kandahar and Helmand.

“What’s the matter with you?” James asked as I fell into the seat next to him.

“I think I’m dying. I shouldn’t have eaten so much.”

About an hour after we arrived at the Herat Restaurant in Shahr-e Naw, we had started filling our faces. First it was ash —a soup of noodles, yogurt, kidney beans, and chickpeas—followed by potato and green onion bolani , eggplant in yogurt, Kabuli pilau , lamb kebabs, and finally firni , a delicious plate of cold custard. Really, it was no wonder that everyone enjoyed a wedding. It was probably the most food they got to eat in a year.