Words in the Dust

1
I traced the letters in the dust with my finger, spelling out my name: Zulaikha. Squinting my eyes in this middle time between night and morning, I checked to make sure my brothers and sister were still sleeping. Then I began to write the alphabet. Alif, be, pe, te…. What was the next letter?
I wriggled my fingers in the cool brown powder before I swept out what I’d written. “I’m sorry, Madar-jan,” I whispered, hoping that somehow her spirit could hear me. “I’m forgetting what you taught me.”
My sister, Zeynab, still slept on her toshak next to mine. Her shiny, straight black hair draped over her smooth, round face and her pretty mouth. She licked her lips in her sleep. No matter how many times I looked at her, I was always fascinated by her beauty, wishing I could be even half as pretty as she was. I found my blue chador and pulled it up over my face. It needed a wash, smelling of salt and smoke.
Roosters crowed, and a few dogs barked. The small city of An Daral still slept, but not for much longer.
“Allahu Akbar” came the voice of the muezzin over the speaker a few streets away, calling the faithful to prayer. The day had begun.
Zeynab rubbed her eyes. “Ooooh, so early.” She turned to Khalid and Habib, who stirred on their toshaks. “I wish I was still young enough to stay sleeping.”
I didn’t say anything, but poured water from a pitcher into a tub to perform wudu’ and cleanse myself for prayer. Zeynab did the same, and then we faced west on our rugs and went through our prayers, standing, bowing, sitting, and always giving thanks and praise to Allah the most merciful. This was the best prayer of the day. Soon Allah would bring the sun up behind us and touch us with its warmth.
After we rose from our prayer rugs, Zeynab went right back to her toshak to sleep. I never understood what she gained from maybe two minutes more of sleep time. I turned to watch the morning glow, the golden pink swell of light building behind the mountains to the east.
In the name of Allah the most merciful and his prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, I give thanks for this new day and ask help so that I can be a daughter my mother would have been proud of. So that I might be a blessing and not a burden to my father. Then I added as I always did, And please grant me peace with Malehkah.
With my personal prayers finished, I stepped over to my sister and gently shook her shoulder.
Zeynab groaned. “Come on, Zulaikha, just a bit longer. Malehkah hasn’t even called for us yet.”
I tugged her sleeve. “Like the muezzin says, prayer is better than sleep.”
She yawned. “Maybe I pray in my sleep. In my dreams.”
“You don’t mean that,” I said. “Anyway, Malehkah will already have the tea and rice ready. She’ll be -”
“Zulaikha. Zeynab.” Malehkah’s sharp voice cut through the morning stillness and echoed off the compound walls. She did not like it when we kept her waiting. This was true.
“Zeynab,” I said, though her name always sounded more like Zeynau when I said it. “Let’s go.”
I started for the stairs that led down into the house, but then I saw that my little brother Khalid had twisted out of his blankets. Even though he was nearly nine years old, he slept more restlessly than two-year-old Habib. When I moved his blanket up to cover him, he put his thumb in his mouth and reached for me with his other hand. I smiled and smoothed his hair as I pulled away.
“Go back to sleep, bacha,” I whispered. “I’ll have some
thing for you to eat when you wake up.”
Malehkah waited at the base of the stairs. “What took you so long getting down here? Zeynab, look after the rice.” She nodded in my direction, her hands wrapped around her bulging stomach as if to protect her unborn baby from me. “Zulaikha, go and buy some naan. Hurry. Your father and Najibullah are hungry.”
I pulled my chador up over my head, slipping the end around to cover my face. Malehkah didn’t like looking at my mouth.
“Don’t you be talking to any shop boys either. It will
be hard enough trying to find a husband for you someday without people thinking you’re too eager.” My father’s wife held out a dirty, wrinkled one-hundred Afghani note. “And bring back the extra money. Remember, thieves lose their hands.”
“Yes, Madar.” Even though I’d had to say this for years, it still hurt to refer to my father’s second wife as mother, especially when she was being so mean. I’d never stolen in my life, and I certainly never said more than was necessary to any shopkeepers. It didn’t matter. Whatever I did, Malehkah was always mad at me. Still, I had to try to please her, to prove to her that I wasn’t so terrible, and to make peace in my father’s house.
When my madar, my real mother, still lived, life with Malehkah was better. Or maybe I was just so young that everything seemed better. Madar-jan had been kind to Malehkah, helping her adjust to life with us and always placing the needs of the family ahead of her own. But I don’t know how or why my mother had been so nice to her. I thought about what she always said whenever I was upset: “Every triumph from patience springs, the happy herald of better things.”
As I made my way across the front courtyard, I tried to open myself to everything around me. I felt the smooth, soft dust between my toes, and I listened to the sound of the breeze whispering and rattling through the palm leaves of our date tree. I noticed all the deep blues, greens, and reds painted onto the elaborate, metal double door at the front of our compound.