Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

“Madar- jan, a girl should have multiple khastgaar, shouldn’t she? You’ve said many times that one khastgaar attracts a second suitor and a third. That would look better for us, wouldn’t it? Maybe you should turn this family away.”

KokoGul balked at my reasoning.

“A second and a third khastgaar ? Look who thinks very highly of herself! Agha Firooz’s son is not good enough? An educated boy from a wealthy, respected family like that is not good enough? Listen, girl, just because one family has come knocking does not mean that anyone else will! Kabul is full of girls.”

Her demeanor had changed completely.

“I just thought. .”

“You should be thankful that anyone has come knocking on your door at all! A girl raised without her mother is not exactly the kind of wife a family welcomes with open arms.”

Without a mother. Her words should not have stung as harshly as they did. I’d lived my life as KokoGul’s stepdaughter, aware with each breath that I was not Najiba or the others. I was inherited, an outsider in my father’s home. That I’d laughed at her jokes, that I’d learned to cook the foods she loved, that I’d rubbed her back when it ached, that I’d spent my life calling her “Madar- jan ”—I wanted to take it all back. KokoGul’s heart was a fixed space, a container with finite dimensions, and every inch of it had been spoken for by my sisters and my father. I stared at her and through her. Once again and even more unexpectedly this time, I was motherless.

“Such ridiculous notions. This business is for me to manage. You’re too young to know what is good for you.”

I watched her lapis ring tap sharply against her teacup. She was a fiery woman, with strong feelings about everything. But in every embrace, every conversation, every glance with me she was lukewarm. I imagined my home without me — my sisters laughing in the hallways, my brother at my father’s side, and KokoGul, hands on her hips, proudly presiding over it all.

Why did my mother have to die?

Nothing exceptional happened on this afternoon. It was a few words, not much different from any other day but it was a private, cataclysmic moment when I saw the woman before me through unclouded eyes.

“They’re coming back sooner than I expected,” KokoGul said, thinking out loud. “But I’ll find a way to keep them baited.”

KokoGul made her own mouth water.

I saw the peaks of a hundred mountains rising before me.

AGHA FIROOZ’S FAMILY APPROVED OF ME. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN flattered.

Instead, I wondered if I could have done something in that first visit to turn their attention away.

But the mother returned, and this time she brought her son along with her. Forbidden from appearing, I kept hidden. I snuck down once only to catch a glimpse and confirm my suspicions. Sitting next to his mother and appearing as proper as a prince was the boy from the market. I slinked away without anyone noticing.

Repulsed, I sat on my bed. My head fell against the wall.

I could hear KokoGul speaking in the singsong voice she used to tell witty stories. She was masterful at telling tales, creating suspense with the cadence of her words. Her eyes would brighten under the attention. She disarmed people in that way, mimicking voices and facial expressions in a way that had listeners doubled over in laughter.

People loved her. I loved her.

Since Boba- jan ’s passing, my father had grown ever more distant. I’d once placed a bowl of dried apricots and walnuts at his side while he was reading. He’d looked up from his newspaper startled. A quiet mumble and a shake of his head told me it wasn’t me he’d seen when he looked up. He still grieved my mother, as did I. He wouldn’t say a word about her, but his melancholy eyes hid nothing. He barely bothered to ask about my classes. We exchanged but a few words in the course of the day.

I wanted to ask him to forgo this suitor.

My father would see things KokoGul’s way. He always did. Not so much because she was looking out for his financial interests, but because it greased the cogs of our home. Life was easier on him when he agreed with KokoGul.

I spent more and more time in the orchard. Being in a house full of people betrayed the solitude I felt. KokoGul was exceptionally cheerful. She spent mornings in the fabric store and afternoons with the seamstress. Her closet celebrated with new lacy hems, a delicate head scarf, and a white wool shawl brilliantly embroidered in gold and emerald stitching.

The courtship continued, the ladies now expressing frankly that they were seeking a wife for Agha Firooz’s son. They did not want to be kept waiting. He was an educated young man who was in line to inherit his father’s business. KokoGul was not pleased that they would ask for an answer so quickly. For her, the dance had only begun.

“Fereiba- jan is a very hardworking girl, you know. My husband has offered time and time again to bring servants to help with the housework, but Fereiba and I, we manage everything together. And I’d rather not have strangers in my home, so I’ve refused.”

I shook my head. It was hard to keep straight truth from lie with KokoGul. I doubted she knew the difference herself.

“Good for you that you’ve been able to raise a hardworking daughter. I’ve never had my daughters do any of the chores around the house. I was afraid they would end up as servants in the homes of others if I did. But to have an aroos, a bride, who can run a household — that would be a welcome change!”

“Yes, indeed. My other daughters are not as involved for the same reason.”

KokoGul danced on, her lapis-ringed finger twirling in the air as she choreographed their exchange.

“FEREI, ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO GET MARRIED?” A GIDDY SULTANA whispered as I tried to focus on my literature assignment.

I ignored the curiosity of my younger sisters. I spoke, ate, and slept very little. Schoolwork was the only effective distraction. When I had time, I returned to the orchard to sulk in privacy.

KokoGul was quietly gathering what she needed to make my shirnee, a symbolic tray of sweets to be presented to the suitor’s family as formal acceptance of their proposal. A silver-plated serving tray, gold tulle, and a box from Kabul’s confectionery store had been tucked into her dresser drawer. Despite the beguiling dance she did with Agha Firooz’s wife, KokoGul was eager to dress me up with ribbons and send me off to a new home. I stared at the things she’d bought. I put her freshly laundered undergarments in her drawer and fought the urge to rip the tulle to shreds, to smash the sweets and leave KokoGul nothing but a tragic pile of gold foil wrappers.

“WHY ARE YOU UNHAPPY?”

Lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed the sound of leaves crunching under my neighbor’s approaching feet. So long as my splotchy face remained hidden, I didn’t mind the anonymous company. I touched the wall. As my fingers traced its roughness, a slip of clay lifted. I rubbed a bit harder and more crumbled to the ground. I turned and leaned against it. The khaki dust lingered on my fingertips.

“There is a family. . with a boy.” I tried different combinations of words but choked on a real explanation.

“Your suitor?”

Though he could not see me, I nodded.

“You know?” I asked.

“My mother and sisters were talking about it. They’ve seen the family come and go, and KokoGul mentioned something when she stopped by this week.”

“She stopped by your home?” I’d paid no attention to KokoGul’s whereabouts in the last two weeks.

“Yes.” The voice spoke quietly. “I can’t say I think much of that boy.”