A Thousand Splendid Suns

 

Mariam was five years old when she first heard that she was illegitimate. Though, she could not understand what the term means but she definitely understood that Nana, her mother was cursing her.

It happened on a Thursday when Mariam finger’s slipped and broke the blue-and-white porcelain tea set, the sole relic of Nana’s mother. It was the day when Jalil Khan had to visit Kolba to meet Mariam. Jalil never called Mariam this name. She was always his little flower and she also loves the stories of Queen Gauhar Shad, wheat field of Herat, the orchards, the city’s crowded markets.

Nana always told her that she was not welcomed at Jalil Khan’s home. Even on the day when she gave birth to Mariam, no one came to help. Jalil didn’t even bother to summon a doctor. It was for two days when she was laid on cold floor without food and sleep. But Mariam had always believed on Jalil’s version that he had arranged for Nana a good doctor in a hospital and the affair was all over within an hour. “You were a good daughter Mariam Jo, even in birth you were a good daughter.”

In the spring of 1974, when Mariam turned 15, she asked a gift for her birthday. She expressed she wants to go to his father’s cinema hall to see cartoon movie along with her brothers and sisters who lives with him in Herat. Her insistence compelled Jalil Khan to make it a point for tomorrow. When Nana heard she said all the things she could have to stop Mariam. She mocked. She tried to convince her that she is not wanted at his home. It is only she who loves her truly. “A man’s heart is a wretched thing Mariam. It won’t bleed, it won’t stretch to make room for you.” Then she tried guilt. “I will die if you go.”

Mariam said she was going for a walk. She feared that she might say hurtful things if she stayed.

You’re afraid, Nana. You’re afraid that I might find my happiness you never had. And you don’t want me to be happy. You don’t want a good life for me. You’re the one with the wretched heart.—she might have said.

The next morning she wore a cream-colored dress, cotton trouser and green hijab. It was only 9’o clock. She was afraid facing Nana who will mock at her. Some time passed, almost 1 ‘o  clock. She went to the stream and waited. Waited a while longer. She waited until her legs were stiff. But she did not returned to the kolba rather headed down the hill for Herat.

She never had been outside to kolba. She find Herat beautiful. She also observed no one pointed, no one laughed at her. Her heart was battering with excitement. She wished Mullah Faizullah, her tuition teacher and most loved person after Jalil to be there. After a while, she worked up her nerve to ask the elderly owner of a horse-drawn cart if he knew where Jalil, the cinema owner lived. The old man told everyone knows where Jalil Khan lives and he offered to take her there. Mariam had no money but the old man told Jalil’s house was on the way to his home and he will drop her there.

Mariam reached there. She saw a black shiny car and touched. She approached the front door of the house. A barefoot young woman opened the door.

“I am here to see Jalil Khan. I am Mariam. His daughter.”

She closed the door. A few minutes passed. Then a man opened the door, the chauffeur and told that Jalil Khan is away on urgent business. She asked if she can get in the house but the driver said he has not permitted to. She crossed her arms and waited whole night.

In the morning, she was shaken awake. It was the driver shaking her shoulder. “You have made enough scenes. It’s time to go.” She cried. She wanted to wait. Moreover, she didn’t want to return Kolba. She ran to the front gates but felt the driver’s fingers fumbling for a grip at her shoulder. She cried and kicked but she was carried to the car and lowered onto cold leather of the backseat. She cried. They were tears of grief, of anger, of disillusionment but mainly the tears of deep, deep shame at how foolishly she had given herself to Jalil. And she was ashamed of how she had dismissed her mother’s stricken looks and puffy eyes. Nana was right.

The car stopped and driver helped her out. A gust of wind blew and parted the drooping branches of the weeping willow like a curtain and Mariam caught a glimpse of what was beneath the tree: the straight-backed chair, overturned. The rope drooping from a high branch. Nana dangling at the end of it.

Mullah Faizullah recited prayers at the graveyard and the men lowered Nana’s shrouded body into the ground. Jalil walked Mariam to the kolba. He collected a few of her things, put them in suitcase. He asked if she needed anything.

“I want Mullah Faizullah” it was when Mullah Faizullah’s slight, stooping figure appeared in the kolba’s doorway that Mariam cried for the first time that day. “You go on and cry, Mariam Jo. Go on. There is no shame in it. But remember, my girl, what the Koran says, ‘Blessed is He in whose hand is the kingdom and He Who has power over all things, Who created death and life that He may try you.’

But Mariam could not hear comfort in God’s words. All she could hear was Nana saying I will die if you go. I will just die.

The car stopped before Jalil’s house. The driver opened the door for them and carried Mariam’s suitcase. She was given a guestroom. Except for when she had to use bathroom down the hall, Mariam stayed in the room. Mullah Faizullah visited her.

A week later, one afternoon, there was a knock. She was Afsoon, Jalil’s third wife who asked her to come downstairs.

“well, I-that is, we-have brought you here because we have some very good news to give you. You have a suitor.” Her stomach fell, chest was tightening, and the room was reeling up and down, the ground shifting beneath her feet. Her eyes were fixed on Jalil’s. But Jalil didn’t look at her. He went on chewing the corner of his lower lip and staring at the pitcher.  “I don’t want to”, she yelled. She kept no track of who was saying what. She went on staring Jalil, waiting for him to speak up, to say that none of this was true.

She turned to Jalil “Tell them. Tell them you won’t let them do this.”

“Goddamn it, Mariam, don’t do this to me”, he said as though he was the one to whom something was being done. Afsoon escorted her back to the room upstairs and locked the door.

The next morning, Mariam was given a long-sleeved, dark green dress to wear over white cotton trousers, a pair of green hijab and a pair of matching sandals. She was taken to the room.

Mariam smelled him before he saw him. Cigarette smoke. A tall man, thick-bellied and broad shouldered. The rituals were done.

“I used to worship you. On Thursdays, I sat down for hours waiting for you. I worried myself sick that you wouldn’t show up.”

“It’s a long trip. You should eat something.”

“I thought about you all the time. I used to pray that you’d live to be a hundred years old. I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were ashamed of me.”

“I will visit you. I will come to Kabul and see you.”

“No. No. Don’t  come. I won’t see you. Don’t you come. I don’t want to hear from you. Ever. Ever. It ends here for you and me”

“Mariam Jo”

She climbed the stairs.