Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

I KEPT DREAMING EVEN AS KOKOGUL USED THE ROLLS OF GOLD tulle and the silver tray she’d kept in her drawer to make Najiba’s shirnee . I kept dreaming even on the day she placed the tray before an elated Bibi Shireen in our humble living room, my sisters looking on with quiet excitement as Najiba entered the room. She looked demure and kept her eyes to the ground as Bibi Shireen kissed her cheeks and embraced her tightly. She kissed her mother-in-law’s hand.

I waited for him to protest but he said nothing. I realized that he would make no valiant motion to save us. This was not the love story I’d imagined.

How could I not stare at my sister’s fiancé? After days of waiting alone in the orchard, how could I not gawk at the man I now believed had duped me into thinking I meant something? He was handsome, actually, which made everything worse. He had chestnut-colored hair and soft, poetic eyes. In his wide-lapel coffee-colored suit, he looked confident — but not overly so. His eyes moved around the room, lighting on guests and relatives just long enough to acknowledge their presence. Not once — I noticed because I’d made it my mission to — did his eyes fall on me or Najiba. I was quite creative in interpreting this observation.

Finally, there was no wall between us. This was what we’d wanted, wasn’t it? He kissed my father’s hands and KokoGul’s hands. My father welcomed him with a hearty embrace. Returning to his mother’s side, he had looked up and given his bride a shy smile. I watched it all. I even went around the room offering colorful foiled chocolates to the few people who’d attended. Bibi Shireen’s sister. Bibi Shireen’s husband. My aunts and uncles.

KokoGul, wary of my erratic behavior, had asked Sultana to serve tea to the guests. She might have been right not to trust me with boiling water.

“Najiba,” Bibi Shireen rejoiced tearfully. “From this day on, you are my daughter. You have two mothers, my beautiful girl. You have brought great happiness to our family!”

My beloved. My face reddened to think of our secret conversations. I felt small and stupid. He’d probably seen my love poem and shaken his head at my foolishness. He’d probably laughed that he’d let things go so far between us or maybe he was embarrassed that he’d ever considered me, the motherless stepsister, for a wife.

I wanted to run out of the room. I wanted to tear at the tulle and create such a scene that I would finally be heard. I wanted to spill my pain on the walls.

I stared on blankly, the slow realization that KokoGul had been right settling in my heart. Jealousy had curdled the love I had for my sister. It was her moment of happiness, a union between her and a handsome young man from a loving family and I could not share in her celebration because of the dark thoughts thundering in my mind.

One thought echoed louder than all the others: Najiba now had two mothers and I had none.

HIS NAME WAS HAMEED. SINCE HE WAS NO LONGER MINE, I COULD say it without blushing. In a way, I was glad I’d never spoken his name. To me, it was nothing but a hollow string of sounds. Nor did his face affect me. I had no memory of his eyes and had never seen his hands. In so many ways, Hameed was a stranger to me.

The scent of the orchard, the sound of his voice, his approaching footsteps — those were the triggers for both my heartache and my rage.

I would never be so blind again.

The newly engaged couple spent time together, walking through the neighborhood in full view of others with their shy smiles and quiet conversations. Najiba blushed when she returned home. I knew why. I could have told her about our private conversations and the empty promises her fiancé had made to me, but I bit my tongue. It was the noble thing to do, I told myself.

For weeks, I watched the couple come and go. KokoGul beamed and busied herself with the wedding arrangements. There were many busy afternoons spent with Bibi Shireen. They were just as taken with each other as the new bride and groom were. I kept my feelings to myself after that day. KokoGul excused my behavior after the shirnee, uninterested in exploring the matter further. She said nothing to my father about the dress I’d shredded.

I ran into Hameed in the courtyard once. He was waiting for Najiba, who’d run into the house to get a scarf. It was fall and the chill of the night air carried into the early morning. The house door slammed behind me. Hameed turned, his boyish smile evaporating at the sight of me. I could see the tension in his legs and arms. Every fiber of his body wanted to escape, our courtyard suddenly feeling like a small cage. He might as well have been inches from my face.

He muttered a faint greeting and turned to the side, his hands disappearing deep into his pockets.

I hesitated, wanting to retreat with the basket of wet clothes and return to the house, but the look on his face gave me strength. His eyes looked away in shame and his shoulders were pulled together, as if he were trying to fold himself in half.

“ Salaam, ” I said loudly and clearly. My voice surprised me. Hameed winced.

I walked past him slowly, aware of each breath and counting the steps between us. I made my way to the side of the house, still visible to him, where I began to hang the damp laundry from a clothesline. I snapped the moisture from each piece before draping it over the rope. It would be hours before anything would dry in the brisk air.

I could see Hameed fidget from the corner of my eye.

I wanted to hate him.

“Fereiba. .” His voice was nothing more than a whisper.

My back was turned to him. I closed my eyes. Two drops of water fell from my father’s damp shirt and landed on my toes.

“These things are family matters. Nothing was ever really in my hands.”

I listened.

“And now I just want you to be happy. For the sake of the families, let’s put it behind us.”

His tone was dismissive. My shame boiled into indignation.

“Put what behind us?” I snapped.

“Do you really want to be this way? You know I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

“I don’t know anything about you. Najiba knows even less.”

He huffed in frustration. I turned around and met his narrowed eyes.

“You know if you say anything, it would look very bad for you,” he seethed.

“If I say anything? Is that what worries you? I have no interest in spoiling my sister’s life,” I said, though it was a half-truth. “I pity her for winding up with a boy who pretends to hang his heart from a tree.”

“You’ve no idea what you’re saying.”

“Don’t I?”

He cast a quick glance over his shoulder and took two steps toward me.

“I told my mother to ask for the hand of the eldest daughter next door. Don’t think I wasn’t surprised when she came back having engaged me to Najiba. Anything I said after that would have brought shame on both our families.”

I stared at him blankly. There are truths and lies and there are things in between, murky waters where light gets bent and broken. I did not know his face well enough to decide if he meant those words. I could not read the movements of his lips or the shadows behind his eyes. Did he want me to understand or did he want me to believe? And if I believed, would that be enough to change the rest of our story?

Najiba emerged with one of Sultana’s scarves knotted at her neck. Her face broke out in a smile. She was no longer the bashful girl with eyes glued to the floor. She’d grown comfortable around Hameed and could walk at his side without feeling indecent. I could see the thrill on her face.

Hameed and I never spoke of our brief past again. I would never know if he truly felt anything more than a playful interest in me or if he’d been baited into a marriage he never wanted. The impropriety of our days in the orchard lingered and we rarely let our eyes meet. Najiba never sensed the shadow between us. If she did, she said nothing about it. I might have done the same if I were in her place.