Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

Latifa had become Zeba’s agent. She would sit at her side and appoint each visitor a turn. When Zeba grew too fatigued to even listen to their requests, she had only to look at Latifa. With a nod, Latifa would shepherd the women out of the cell.

“Time to go!” Latifa announced with a clap of her thick hands. She turned the television off and guided the woman to the door with a hand on her back. “God created head scarves for situations like yours. How wise of Him, no? Khanum Zeba’s not a doctor or a pharmacy. If you ask me, I’d say you should really stop gossiping so much. The things you said about your own cellmates — shame on you. Someone’s probably cast a spell on your hair. Did you ever think about that?”

The woman scowled at Latifa and pushed her hand away.

Zeba wanted to help them all, but there were so many pleas and not even Gulnaz’s jadu worked all the time. Sometimes it was overpowered by another spell, Gulnaz had explained, and sometimes it was struck down by God. Zeba also knew that she was not Gulnaz. Zeba’s eyes were a dull brown, her skin showed its age, her convictions were weakened by doubt. She was an apprentice when what these women really needed was the master.

Latifa closed the door to the cell.

“Thank you,” Zeba said gently.

Latifa shrugged her shoulders. She was quite content with the informal position she’d been given. Zeba knew that Latifa had also been showered with gifts by women hoping to have Zeba’s ear. Prison guards, police officers, and judges had their palms greased all the time. For Latifa, having her turn at it meant she was rising in the ranks.

“I need to get out of this room for a bit,” Zeba said, fanning herself with a rumpled magazine. The electric fan in their cell had stopped working a week ago. “I need some air.”

“Sure,” Latifa said. “I’m going to go down to the beauty parlor and see what the women are up to.”

She was probably trying to drum up more business for tomorrow, Zeba realized with a sinking feeling as soon as she stepped out of the cell. She didn’t have the energy to fight it.

She wanted so much to help each and every one, to open the doors and set them free or promise them that their children would stay with them forever. But Zeba was neither a lawyer nor a judge. She could do nothing with the bribes she’d been given, nor could she even know if her own children would ever see her again. This prison, with its beauty salon and televisions and crayon-scribbled walls, was a dungeon. The injustice inside it leached all the energy from her body. Zeba ran her hand along the red oily scrawl left by a child just learning the alphabet. The children here made her most sad.

“Madar- jan !”

Zeba spun around. Shabnam? Kareema?

“Madar!”

The echo of a child’s voice through the cold hallway made Zeba weak, even when it belonged to another woman’s child. She turned each and every time, though it had been so long since anyone had called to her.

A six-year-old girl with plastic sandals and a brightly colored dress came racing down the hallway. The hems of her hand-me-down pantaloons looked like they would catch between her feet.

“Slowly, slowly!” Zeba cautioned.

The little girl slowed her step and looked at Zeba curiously. The roundness of her eyes, the drift of her bangs, the dimple in her chin called to mind Kareema. Zeba’s eyes watered.

“You sweet thing. Why are you calling your mother? Do you miss her?”

“No, I. . uh. . I just needed her.”

Zeba’s head spun slightly. She’d not had a chance to eat lunch with all the women coming to see her. Latifa had brought her water, but she’d left it untouched.

“Your dress is so pretty.”

Kareema had been wearing a dress just like this little girl’s dress on the day Kamal had died. It had been Shabnam’s until just a few months ago. The girls would have grown since she’d been away. Rima must have learned a few more words by now. Maybe she was running.

There were thoughts that Zeba couldn’t push out of her head. Did Tamina really look after them? If Rima cried at night, did anyone soothe her? Were the girls being used as house servants or would they be married off as revenge for their father’s murder? They were only children. She prayed, with the fervor of the most devout believer, that Kamal’s family was not blaming them for Kamal’s death.

She remembered the faces of the twin boys, the way they’d flinched on hearing the crime committed against their mother. Tiny shoulders bore a lot of blame.

Zeba was on her knees. She was holding the startled girl’s hands in her own, turning them over and staring at the pink of her palms.

Children had such perfect hands — so soft and eager to hold on to someone who would love them. Was Rima holding her aunt’s hands? Did she try to nestle against her aunt’s bosom? And when she did, was she pulled in so she would forget Zeba or was she pushed away and left to wonder why?

A little boy came along. By the way he took the little girl’s hand from Zeba and moved close enough that their shoulders were touching, she guessed he must have been her brother though he couldn’t have been more than a year older.

“What a good brother you are! So good of you to take care of your sister. God will reward you for being such a caring brother. What is your name?”

The two children exchanged looks.

“My name is Bashir,” he answered slowly.

Zeba threw her head back and laughed. She wiped her tears away and leaned in to share her story.

“My son’s name is Basir! Did you know that? He’s older than you. He’s such a good boy, too. When he was your age, he used to take care of his little sisters. Your mother must love you both very much. You should never leave her, understand me? No matter what people say about her, you should never believe it. Even if they call her a whore or a liar or a murderer or a. .”

The two children were looking past Zeba at the warden and Yusuf. They stood behind her, listening to her wild rant.

Zeba didn’t hear them calling her name.

“People don’t know. They say terrible things, but they don’t really know what’s happened.”

The children took one step backward, then two.

“Are you afraid of me? Please, please don’t be afraid of me! I’m nothing to be scared of! I’m so sorry. I only wanted to talk to you!”

There were hands on her elbows, bringing her to her feet.

“Why are you running from me!” she shrieked. “I’m not the person you should be running from! I promise I am not that person!”

There were shouts, calls for guards to help, more hands on her even as she kicked. Her head scarf fell to the floor.

“Let me go! Let me go! I didn’t kill him!”

Latifa loomed over her.

“Shut up, Zeba! You’re scaring these children! Look what you’ve done!”

But Zeba hadn’t done anything. Why couldn’t anyone see that? Why did everyone continue to blame her?

“Zeba,” Yusuf said. Asma and another guard were holding Zeba up by the elbows. Her knees were bent, and she was writhing in their grasp. “Control yourself!”

Latifa grabbed Zeba’s face with her hands — thick, manly hands that made Zeba’s feet kick out, striking Latifa in the shin. Latifa let go and scowled sharply.

Zeba’s head ached. She felt the urge to slam her skull against the wall and release the poison. Human skulls are nothing more than eggshells anyway, she thought. And even a child can crack eggs.

“Get your hands off me! You brought that filth into our home. I could smell it and taste it and feel it and you told me it was nothing! I should have killed you long ago!”

“Khanum Zeba, please, stop screaming. .”