Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

It must be possible, Zeba thought. She thought of the way her mother had stared off into the distance as they’d talked. She imagined how long her mother must have traveled just to slip two fingers through a metal fence. There was good in her that was surely not new. It was only that Zeba was seeing her mother in a new light. She had the darkness to thank for this new insight.

“My mother’s jadu is unmatched,” Zeba stated with confidence. “She’s started and ended love affairs. She’s pulled people out of their deathbeds and thrown others in. She’s made minds hot with anger and others soft with love. From the time I was a young girl, I stood at her side and learned every potion, every unfathomable combination, and I know better than anyone what her spells are capable of. You want to marry this boy, Mezhgan? A problem as simple as yours can be fixed in the time it takes to bring a pot of water to boil.”

Zeba exhaled sharply. There was pride in her voice, more than even she had expected to hear. The women in the cell listened carefully; she’d commanded their attention. They watched her eyes glisten, her cheeks draw in, and her neck straighten. Latifa was not snickering or mocking her. Mezhgan and Nafisa absorbed every word. Zeba could taste the respect in the air. She was reluctant to break the silence and spoil the moment.

Mezhgan spoke first.

“I believe it, Khanum Zeba,” she affirmed, her voice trembling with young hope. “I beg of you to help me. Tell me what I should do!”

“I don’t know if I should be getting mixed up in your troubles,” Zeba said quietly. It was true.

“Please, Zeba. I swear to you he’s my beloved and I am his. We are destined to be together. We need only someone to unlock our fates.”

Across the room, Nafisa’s eyebrows rose a degree.

Was I ever so naïve? Zeba wondered. She felt like Gulnaz, a seer amid the blind. But she couldn’t bring herself to disappoint the girl sitting before her, waiting for her help so earnestly it was heartbreaking. Zeba thought of the many hours between now and tomorrow. Then she thought of the many days ahead of her. She leaned back, her palms flat against the thin mattress of her prison bed.

My bed, Zeba thought . This is where I’ll be sleeping for God knows how many nights. Maybe all the nights of my life, however many that may be.

If she did not find a way to claim the cold walls around her, they would close in on her. Zeba looked around the room. The other women had hung up pictures, magazine cutouts, or family photos on the rectangular spaces above their beds. Nafisa had cross-stitched a geometric border in red thread on her white blanket. Latifa had set a vase of artificial roses at the foot of her bed.

To survive, they had to adapt. They could adapt themselves or they could adapt the space they occupied, Zeba realized. If she were to be a prisoner of Chil Mahtab, she would have to do the same. She looked at her cellmates. She could do it with their help. She could settle into this place if she could become someone here.

“Listen carefully,” Zeba began, knowing that the women would hang on every word that came out of her mouth. She knew, too, that this would be a test for them all. It would test their faith in Zeba and test the sorcery skills she’d inherited from her mother. It would test Mezhgan’s patience while she waited for the spell to sway her beloved’s parents.

Zeba shared with Mezhgan, in painstaking detail, how the hearts of her lover’s parents would be softened toward her. She told her about the string of red, about the seven knots and the three drops of blood. She described the cloth it would be folded in and how it would be thrown over the walls of her lover’s home, along with three feathers from a freshly killed chicken. She did not forget to tell Mezhgan about the thread that would be tied around her own wrist with the same seven knots to bind her to her lover.

Mezhgan listened intently, her fingers tying knots in an invisible thread even as Zeba spoke. She nodded with every instruction and dared not interrupt.

“That is all that needs to be done,” Zeba declared. “But it must be done quickly, before their resolve grows too hard for the spell to break it.”

“How long will it take to work?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Zeba said. “It depends on how precisely the instructions are carried out. Jadu is a fickle creature. You’re at its mercy once you call on it.”

Mezhgan threw her arms around Zeba’s neck. Zeba stood still, resting her hands on the young girl’s back hesitantly. Mezhgan’s embrace made Zeba’s eyes well with tears. Would her daughters one day be as foolish as this girl? She brushed the thought aside and enjoyed the weight of another person, even as it anchored her to the prison floor.

MEZHGAN’S DISGRACED MOTHER CAME TO VISIT HER DAUGHTER one week later. Mezhgan relayed to her Zeba’s very specific instructions. She impressed upon her mother the importance of following the road map precisely. Yes, the thread had to be red. No, the blood did not have to be fresh nor did it have to be Mezhgan’s. Yes, the tiny packet had to be thrown over the wall of her beloved’s home for the magic to be effective.

Mezhgan’s mother listened, doubtful, but willing to try anything to lift the dishonor her doe-eyed daughter had brought upon their family. Mezhgan’s father hadn’t left the house in three weeks, too ashamed to meet his neighbors’ eyes. It made for a very tense home.

The mother made the long walk back to her home, stopping on the way and buying a spool of red wool thread from the seamstress. By the light of an oil lantern, her knobby fingers knotted the thread. She whispered a prayer over it too, for good measure. When she’d carried out all the directions, she returned to her living room and clutched a cup of freshly steeped tea in her hands. She held the cup to her chin, letting the steam mist her skin. Her husband did not lift his head to ask where she’d been, a small blessing.

Either this magic would work, she thought, or her daughter had made a fool out of her for a second time.

ELEVEN DAYS LATER, MEZHGAN’S MOTHER RETURNED TO THE prison.

Mezhgan’s fingers gripped the metal rings of the fence so tightly they turned white. Her cellmates watched from enough distance to feign privacy.

Though they could not hear a single word, they could see the excitement pass through the latticework of the fence. Mezhgan’s head fell back in elation. She clapped her hands once, twice, three times and twirled on her foot. She drew her shoulders up and covered her grin with her cupped hands. Her mother wiped away a tear of joy.

“Either her head lice spread to the rest of her body or she’s gotten some good news,” Latifa quipped. She stole a sidelong glance at Zeba.

Nafisa could not take her eyes off Mezhgan. Her buoyant mood was infectious, even across the dismal prison yard.

Mezhgan came running over, the ends of her lilac head scarf dancing in the breeze. Zeba braced herself. Until this very moment, she still harbored doubts as to what she could do on her own; it had been so many years since she’d last toyed with Gulnaz’s craft.

“Zeba- jan, you did it! His mother’s come to ask for my hand in marriage! I knew he loved me. You unlocked my naseeb . How can I possibly thank you for bringing my darling to me?”

Mezhgan, with her hands clasped together, shot Latifa a coy look.

“Latifa, you were wrong to poke fun! Zeba’s spell worked faster and cost far less than buying off a hardheaded judge!”

Mezhgan crouched down to kiss Zeba’s hands in gratitude. Zeba’s eyes fluttered in surprise, and she pulled her hands away.