Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

Gulnaz became the most sought after young woman in town, and her parents felt compelled to wed her soon lest that desirability backfire. Surely, those who had been turned away would be disappointed, and spiteful tongues could make Gulnaz out to be a heartbreaker or a temptress.

Gulnaz’s mother spoke to her about the suitors. She described their families, the work each boy was able to do to provide for a family. Gulnaz would shrug her shoulders. She had little interest in a man who would come home with hands calloused by metalwork or one who aspired to follow in the devout footsteps of her father, the murshid . She scowled at the proposition of a boy who was intent on becoming an army general. She had no use for a man who liked to shout orders all day long.

Gulnaz’s mother grew impatient with her nay-saying. They had turned away too many families, and she was growing anxious.

The tailor’s family didn’t think they stood a chance. They were nowhere near as well-to-do as others in town. Their eldest son, a young man of twenty years, had been blessed with handsome features but was soft-spoken and didn’t know what to do with his hands when he wasn’t holding a needle and thread. His mother had come alone twice already. When she came with her son, Gulnaz went outside the house to steal a glance through the living room window. The boy’s mother had her back to the cinched lace curtains and didn’t see Gulnaz’s emerald irises peering curiously through the dust-spackled pane. Gulnaz’s mother, on the other hand, was duly horrified to see her daughter’s face in the glass. She refilled the teacups for her guests, praying that they wouldn’t turn their heads and spot the onlooker. The boy sat at an angle, staring appropriately at the carpet before him and appearing like the well-mannered young man his mother promised he would be.

He was actually fairly handsome, Gulnaz decided. She liked the softness in his voice and the way his fingers toyed with the teacup in his hands. He was gentle. He would not tell her what to be.

Look at me, Gulnaz willed. Let me see your eyes.

Gulnaz’s mother’s shoulders were stiff. She nodded her head politely as the boy’s mother spoke, though barely a word of what she was saying registered. She was preoccupied with how she would explain her daughter’s behavior should the tailor’s wife turn her head round.

Gulnaz pressed her fingertips to the glass.

Come on, now. Do you really want to be my husband for all our days? Let me see who you are.

The boy’s back straightened. His chin lifted slightly.

Gulnaz’s eyes widened.

Look this way. Here I am if you want to see me. Tell me you will treat me like a queen and I will nod my head and give myself to you.

Why was she doing this? He wasn’t the most handsome man to come courting. He was not the boldest or most accomplished, either. But she was taken by his demeanor and the patience it took to thread a needle, to measure fabric by the centimeter, to stitch a perfect hem. He was the type of man who would appreciate her. He would let Gulnaz be Gulnaz.

Gulnaz sighed. She needed to look into his eyes to know. She needed him to listen now if she were to believe he would listen any other day.

Am I what you want with your whole heart? Do you believe it’s our kismet to be man and wife? Look at me if we’re meant to be.

The man of thread was pulled by an invisible one that led to the window, to the unimaginably beautiful young woman beckoning him to prove his devotion. His eyes lifted from the carpet, his hands relaxed, and he looked over his mother’s shoulder.

Gulnaz gasped and put a hand over her mouth, as if she’d been speaking her bold thoughts out loud.

When he smiled, Gulnaz whirled away from the window and pressed her back to the wall of the house. Her breathing quickened as she inched back to the glass to peek in again. His eyes! They were as kind as Gulnaz had hoped, but they also shone with something Gulnaz couldn’t name, and Gulnaz had a weakness for mystery.

Gulnaz’s mother was wringing her hands and doing her best to keep the boy’s mother looking straight ahead. This behavior was unforgivable.

The boy’s eyes were again downcast, but there was a glimmer of mischief on his face.

Yes, Gulnaz thought. You, I accept. I will be your beloved, your fiancée, your jewel.

Within six months, the murshid ’s daughter was engaged and married to a promising young tailor who would later prance out of her life irreverently, leaving her with two children and plenty of reasons to hate the world around her.

ZEBA FELT THE HOLLOW ACHE IN HER STOMACH BUT COULDN’T bring herself to eat anything. Her cellmates had nudged her for breakfast and lunch, but she’d ignored them, barely grunting a reply to their concern. By this evening, they were indifferent. She was a grown woman and if she didn’t have enough sense to eat, they would gladly split her share.

Yusuf was young and inexperienced, she knew. He had noble intentions, the noblest intentions Zeba had ever seen, but intentions accomplished little in Afghanistan. Guns, money, power, pride — these were the currencies of this country. That glint in his eye the last time they’d spoken had only made him look pathetic to his client — like a child who’d spotted a toy in a minefield.

Zeba couldn’t save him. She could barely save herself.

She thought of her mother. The notorious Gulnaz. It was a full year ago that Gulnaz had come knocking on her door, her piercing eyes scanning their home. She told Zeba she’d sensed something was awry. She’d been having terrible dreams, images of the children rolling off the roof and falling to the ground, of Basir’s foot being run over by a car and Kareema being kidnapped by a caravan of kuchi nomads. She was waking up in the middle of the night with a terrible feeling.

“Madar- jan, I’m a grown woman. I won’t be scared by your nightmares anymore,” Zeba said, though mother and daughter both knew she didn’t mean it. Zeba hadn’t been raised in any ordinary family. She’d been raised in the shadow of Gulnaz, the jadugar, and Safatullah, the great murshid . Nightmares weren’t just bad dreams — they were omens. Feelings were divinings. These were gifts of knowledge, and ignoring them constituted a sin.

Gulnaz had opened the purse strings on a pouch and let a handful of espand fall into her palm.

“Let me espand these children. . and you. At least let me do that much for my grandchildren.”

Zeba had watched complacently as her mother tossed the seeds into a small pot and held it over a fire until a curl of smoke rose from the lip of the vessel. Gulnaz moved the seeds around with a stick, giving them all a chance to smolder into incense. The smoke grew denser and the pungent smell of the seeds filled the back room of the house and drifted into the courtyard.

“Do you see?” Gulnaz had said, clucking her tongue in exasperation. “Look at how thick the smoke is! Just think how much evil eye has been cast upon your home and your children.”

The smoke was a precise measure to Gulnaz, who could almost assign a weight in ounces to nazar .

“Look at that!” She’d pointed, her finger piercing a rising plume. “See the way the smoke bends and curls? It’s the letter beh, I swear. There’s a kof for Kareema. And a meem .”

Gulnaz had found enough letters from the children’s names that she was convinced her espand was speaking volumes, proving just how much evil eye had been directed at her grandchildren.

“Madar, this is ridiculous. It’s only espand, ” Zeba had protested.