Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

She decided to live up to the image they’d created of her. When the mood struck her, she could make their narrowed eyes quiver with fright.

Gulnaz liked how powerful she felt. She was in control.

By the time she was an adolescent, Gulnaz had harnessed the effect her green eyes had on others. With a few careful, sweet words, she could manipulate situations to suit her mood. For Gulnaz, it became a sport. Since she’d never known a time when people saw her as innocent, she didn’t feel guilty about it in the least. They’d created this Gulnaz, this young woman who drew strength from their suspicions, from their fears. Her extended family treated her delicately, loving her at arm’s length and burning espand seeds in her wake to smoke away the effect of her gaze. Her mother resented how the family treated Gulnaz and was proud that her daughter had learned to use their fears against them. It was much better than being their victim.

Gulnaz loved her father, the murshid, as any daughter would, but she was utterly devoted to her mother. Her mother understood her and loved her wholly, unconditionally. From the moment she opened her eyes in the morning, she could feel her mother’s watchful gaze. She would see her whispering prayers and blowing blessings her way. Because of her mother, Gulnaz could walk tall through the compound regardless of the mood of the rest of the family.

“My daughter, keep your tricks to yourself for now. You’re a young woman, and this is not the time to show off the things you can do. Those are a woman’s talents, not a girl’s.”

Gulnaz understood her mother was preparing her for marriage. She came from a much respected family and was unquestionably beautiful, but if word trickled out into the rest of town that she could wreak havoc on a household with a pinch of spice and a ball of clay, no family would even consider courting her for their son.

Gulnaz didn’t think much of marriage, but out of respect for her mother, she did as she was told. Her mother casually mentioned that Gulnaz had outgrown her make-believe powers. Gulnaz, doing her part, kept her eyes safely downcast. She kept a neutral smile on her face and pretended to be a demure girl. By the time two years had passed, the family had grown considerably more welcoming toward her. Gulnaz missed the way she could send ripples through family gatherings but took solace in the knowledge that she’d simply reined in her powers. That, too, was a manifestation of her control.

WHEN GULNAZ TURNED FIFTEEN, HER MOTHER BEGAN TO TAKE her to festivals and gatherings. She was old enough to sit with the women and be seen at her mother’s side. Her looks were quite striking, and the women took notice. She could feel eyes on her, checking the fullness of her eyebrows, the straightness of her teeth, the promising curve of her hips. The boys in town became intrigued by the excited descriptions their mothers shared with them.

Remember to act like a lady, her mother would warn her before they left the house . Answer questions politely and kiss the hands of the gray haired. Keep your voice and words soft. We’re the murshid ’s family and people expect more of us.

Gulnaz would nod her head. She’d been hearing the same instructions since she’d been a little girl and knew perfectly well how to carry herself.

It was fall and just a few months from Gulnaz’s sixteenth birthday. The murshid ’s family had been invited to a wedding. The groom belonged to one of the more well-to-do families in town, who had expressly invited Safatullah, grateful for the blessings he’d given their son before his engagement, and insisted that his wife and daughter accompany him for the celebration.

Gulnaz was excited. She’d never attended a wedding before. The promise of music, dancing, and lavish dresses tickled her curiosity.

Her dress was picked out months before the party. Just before leaving the house, Gulnaz’s mother retrieved a pair of eighteen-karat gold filigree earrings from her jewelry box and placed them in her daughter’s palm. Gulnaz put them on and swiveled her head side to side to feel them dangle from her lobes. She felt positively exquisite, considering her usual unadorned attire.

When she and her mother entered the women’s hall, Gulnaz’s mouth dropped. The music was so loud, she could almost feel the rhythm of the tabla beating within her chest. Thin vases holding red roses sat atop round tables draped with pink tablecloths. The large banquet hall had been partitioned by a heavy curtain that ran the length of the room. The women, protected from the view of the men, shook their shoulders and let their hips undulate to the dance music, the quick tempo carrying them across the dance floor, spinning them and bringing them to a halt as if it were an actual dance partner. Giddy faces glistened with sweat. They laughed and squealed at each other’s moves.

The older women and bashful adolescents stayed in their seats and clapped in encouragement or looked on with interest. Mothers of young men watched with a keen eye, looking for a girl who was beautiful but not too haughty, someone who danced well but not too suggestively, a girl who glowed with innocence and virtue and fertility.

Gulnaz and her mother wove through the maze of tables and chairs to join their relatives, seated far enough away from a cluster of vibrating speakers that they could have some conversation. The sharp sound of the electronic keyboard, a synthesizer blending familiar beats, and the melody of the up-tempo song echoed through the room.

Gulnaz’s eyes scanned the hall, drinking in the sounds, so much louder than anything she could remember. She brushed wisps of hair from her forehead, enjoying the clink of the bangles, the feel of the cool metal against her wrist. She felt her mother’s hand against her back, guiding her to the table. Gulnaz kept her eyes lowered, playing her part to her mother’s satisfaction.

Her dress was the color of a peacock’s feathers, blended together in an exotic and rich cotton. Narrow sleeves ended just below her elbow and the narrow waistline opened into a long, generous skirt that billowed as she walked. A panel of gold embroidery and small mirrors covered her budding chest. The regal stitching swirled from the shoulders to the cuffs, which were lined in a satin of the deepest emerald green. The dress was extravagant but, on some holidays, the murshid chose to spoil his daughter.

Gulnaz crossed the room, heads turning as she placed one foot in front of the other. Her dark hair fell gently against her shoulders, her eyes vibrant and striking. Gulnaz’s lips curled into a shy, barely noticeable smile. By the time she reached her table, Gulnaz had become acutely aware that her beauty was magnetic, unmatched, and, most important, powerful.

IN THE THREE WEEKS AFTER THE WEDDING, SAFATULLAH’S HOME was visited by a flood of callers, unusual even for the esteemed murshid . What was most peculiar was that it was women knocking on the gates and that they were asking to see the murshid ’s wife. Gulnaz’s mother would push her amused daughter into the next room or out of the house while women showered her with platitudes.

Gulnaz would smile coyly from behind a closed door or with an ear pressed to the clay wall. She giggled at the flattery, the way the mothers lauded their sons’ good looks, intelligence, and sense of honor. Sometimes she would slip past the room just to tempt them with a glimpse. Why bother with magic when she could make grown women bend and jump just by showing a sliver of her face?

The suitors were plentiful and persistent. Gulnaz’s dark reputation was a thing of the past, a childish phase, a distraction to keep the suitors at bay. A few of Gulnaz’s aunts and cousins watched the wave of interest with suspicion. They explained the phenomenon in whispers and knowing glances: Gulnaz had bewitched the village.