Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

Out of sight, I listened in. She continued to praise our family and then started to talk about her own. Her son, she said, was completing his engineering studies in a few months and was now of age to begin his own family.

“He will be standing on his two feet soon, what a mother dreams to see. We are very proud of all that he has done.”

“As you should be. He takes after his father then. Agha Walid is much respected, of course.”

“Indeed,” his aunt added. “He’s been a role model for his younger siblings and his cousins, my own dear son included.”

“I see.”

“KokoGul- jan, we come to you today on behalf of my beloved son, who is the jewel of our home and of our extended family. Praise Allah, I have been blessed with an intelligent, hardworking, and loving son, and I want to make sure that he will have a wife who will bring him happiness. It is time for him to start a family. As a mother, now that he is himself a man, this is one of the most important things I can do for him — to put the right woman at his side. Your family is a respectable family, a trustworthy family, and, praise Allah, a beautiful one.”

“You are kind,” KokoGul said, sitting straight and tall with her hands folded neatly on her lap. She ate up Bibi Shireen’s sweet talk.

“And so we have come to talk to you about your darling daughter,” she continued.

“I see,” KokoGul said, doing her best to appear at least a little surprised.

I held my breath in the hallway. Najiba was still in her room, wondering if KokoGul would signal her to join the guests.

“We believe that your eldest daughter would be a good match for my son.”

“Well,” KokoGul drew her hand to her chest. “My family is honored to hear this, but we had not yet considered marriage for our daughter. She is still young.”

“Young, yes, but she is of perfect age to consider marriage. These are sweet days for young love to grow, wouldn’t you agree?”

Her sister, Zeba, echoed her sentiments.

“Yes, this is a wonderful age for two young people to get to know each other and commit to each other.”

“I think they would be a wonderful match. Our two families have respected each other for years as neighbors. Our children are grown and it is our responsibility, as their mothers, to think of their futures.”

I could hear the clink of teacups on saucers as the women planned what to say next.

“This is something we would have to consider carefully. I cannot even begin to think of giving my daughter’s hand. We, too, have been honored to share a border with your family but. . at this time, there is nothing more that I can say. As a mother, I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, dear KokoGul. We are here only to begin a conversation. I want you to know our interests are not superficial. I mean everything I have said. I know that your family must consider this and that you will take your time to think on it. But I’m also certain that you want to do what’s best for your daughter, and it is my hope that you will see my son as the best match for your dear daughter, Najiba- jan .”

Najiba?

I stifled the cry in my throat.

“Najiba is my dear daughter, a wonderful student and a giving sister. I’ve prayed for her, as I’ve prayed for all my children, that in her naseeb is a good person, a life partner who will honor her and our family.”

“You are a loving mother, KokoGul. Your children are fortunate to have you and Agha- sahib as parents.”

It was Najiba they wanted, not me.

KOKOGUL HAD BEEN RIGHT. OUR NEIGHBORS WERE COURTING MY sister Najiba. When they’d left, I’d returned to my room. Najiba found me sitting on the floor wearing nothing but a slip. Scraps of fabric lay scattered on my lap, at my feet, behind me; I’d cut my shift dress into a thousand pieces. My sister wrenched the scissors from my hands and yelled for KokoGul. KokoGul suspiciously surveyed the scene from the doorway, conjuring her own theories as to what had caused my unraveling.

“Take the scissors and leave her be. I don’t know what the meaning of this is, Fereiba, but we’ve no room for madness or destruction in this house.”

Najiba looked concerned. I waited for them to leave. I could hear KokoGul whispering to Najiba in the hallway.

“She had a suitor and look what happened to him. Jealousy curdles the soul like a drop of vinegar in milk. Bibi Shireen knows Fereiba’s story as well as the other neighbors do. People want their sons to marry respectable girls. Fereiba is your father’s daughter and I mean no ill when I say this, but people see her as an orphan, as a girl without a family. She lost the only chance she had to marry into an esteemed family.”

“But she has a family, Madar- jan, ” Najiba whispered in soft protest.

“It’s not the same, my darling,” KokoGul clucked. “I’ve tried to make her feel as much my daughter as you and your sisters, but she’s kept herself apart. She’s more comfortable doing the housework than being with us.”

Throughout my life, KokoGul had given me just enough to believe this could be true. There were days she hugged me as she hugged my sisters, stroked my hair as if I were one of her own. There were days we sat together doing housework and laughing at something Mauriya had done. There were just enough of those moments to make me wonder if it was I who had kept myself at arm’s length from the rest of the family.

I knew my beloved must have been devastated. I wondered if he even knew what his mother had done. It was not unheard of for mothers to make decisions on behalf of their reckless sons. Boys thought only of today. Mothers considered tomorrows. But my beloved was not most boys. He was an intellectual. He was my patient confidante, my keeper of secrets. He and I would have to fight to be together. I realized I should have expected nothing less.

Bibi Shireen had taken from us our budding affair. She’d denied the universe its chance to redeem itself for stripping me of a loving mother and father and of a childhood equal to that of my siblings. She had smiled demurely, allowed me to wait on her, and then pulled the world out from under my feet. Fueled by the flame of adolescent emotion, I fell deeper in love with the man yet unseen.

I SAT UNDER THE MULBERRY TREE FOR DAYS, BUT HE DID NOT come. I stayed there for hours at a time, the coils of the bark imprinted on my back, proof of my devotion. Bibi Shireen returned to the house for a second and third visit. She was persistent and rushed, wanting KokoGul to agree to give Najiba’s hand as if a clock were ticking. Her doggedness told me that my beloved knew nothing of her doings. Bibi Shireen had tasted the rumors about me and was hoping to save her son from marriage to Kabul’s black maiden, the orphaned daughter-servant next door.

Najiba tiptoed around me. In my clearer moments, I pitied her. What should have been a joyful, exciting courtship had been spoiled by my rancorous behavior. I spoke few words and did not smile much. I was preoccupied with finding a way to communicate with my beloved without compromising our secret.

By the evening light, I wrote out Rabia Balkhi’s blood-soaked poem on a piece of paper. I curled the paper into a ball and snuck out of my room at nightfall, winding my way past the cherry trees, under the grapevines, and into the nesting of mulberry trees against the wall. I paused and, hearing nothing but the distant croaking of a frog, I threw the balled paper over the wall where I hoped my secret love would find it and realize my devotion was unwavering despite those trying to keep us apart.

For days, I searched for scraps of paper on my side of the wall. I imagined the different ways he might send a message to me.