She also knew pork would not be on the menu in accordance with the Koran.
Even though Husna was fluent in English, they spoke to each other in Pashto, the national language of Afghanistan, while they drank tea and helped themselves to the grapes and figs that were in a dish that had been placed on a large brass table by servants. After a while, a servant announced that the evening meal was served.
They walked into a room which was large enough to accommodate the extended family while they ate their meals. In keeping with tradition, Darya knew they’d be sitting on the floor to eat. A plastic tablecloth had been placed on the rug with brightly colored cushions surrounding it. The large family soon filled the room.
Salaam, salaam , her cousins said in greeting as they and their children piled onto the cushions that had been placed on the floor. Husna and Haji’s children and their grandchildren partially made up the large family. There were also some parents of their children’s spouses, bringing the total to over forty people residing in the compound.
The last to enter the room was Haji, Darya’s uncle and Husna’s husband. He was the head male of the family and his word was law. One of the children carried a copper basin and an elaborately decorated pot filled with water for each member to use to wash their hands. In this compound, nothing had changed for centuries.
Haji greeted Darya in the traditional manner. “ Salaam ” he said, shaking her hand. He sat down on the cushion reserved for him, looking around to make sure that all of the family was present. It was unnecessary as everyone from the smallest baby to Husna would always be where they were expected to be and do what they were expected to do. No one did anything to offend Haji. His autocratic rule of his family was legendary and yet was typical of most Afghan families.
Servants brought in one dish after another: grilled lamb kebabs; Afghanistan’s national dish, quabili palao with meat and stock topped with fried raisins, slivered carrots and pistachios; rice with meatballs; dumplings; tandoori chicken; salad; naan and lavash breads; an onion based stew with beef, yogurt and spices; and stuffed grape leaves. Chutney and pickled fruits accompanied the dishes with dessert consisting of gosh e feel , thin fried pastries covered with powdered sugar and ground pistachios. They ate communal style, passing the food and eating with the fingers of their right hand. Each time a platter was empty another dish quickly replaced it. Darya knew this was one place she didn’t need to have her food tested for poisonous substances.
After dinner everyone left for their respective homes located within the compound and Haji went into his office. Husna and Darya sat and talked. Soon all of the dishes had been cleared and they were the only ones in the room. Darya’s aunt began to speak.
“Darya, there are things I must tell you. I have cancer and not long to live.”
“No, that can’t be!” Darya exclaimed, her hand unconsciously rising to her chest as if to ward off the thought. “You look so good. Surely there’s a mistake. What makes you think that?”
“Three doctors have told me I have a type of cancer that is incurable. No, don’t cry,” she said as she leaned over and brushed a tear from Darya’s cheek. “I have made my peace with Allah. Haji knows but refuses to accept it. He even had me flown to Paris in hopes a doctor there could help. That specialist told me the same thing. It is inoperable and incurable. Haji prays to Allah for me to be cured, but it’s no use. I need you to do something for me, but no one must know about it. It is really important to me. Will you?”
“Of course, Husna, whatever you need. Would you like to come to the United States and see doctors there? Father still teaches at Harvard and knows many doctors.”
“No, Darya, this has nothing to do with my health. Just listen to me and don’t interrupt. When I was married
Even though Husna was fluent in English, they spoke to each other in Pashto, the national language of Afghanistan, while they drank tea and helped themselves to the grapes and figs that were in a dish that had been placed on a large brass table by servants. After a while, a servant announced that the evening meal was served.
They walked into a room which was large enough to accommodate the extended family while they ate their meals. In keeping with tradition, Darya knew they’d be sitting on the floor to eat. A plastic tablecloth had been placed on the rug with brightly colored cushions surrounding it. The large family soon filled the room.
Salaam, salaam , her cousins said in greeting as they and their children piled onto the cushions that had been placed on the floor. Husna and Haji’s children and their grandchildren partially made up the large family. There were also some parents of their children’s spouses, bringing the total to over forty people residing in the compound.
The last to enter the room was Haji, Darya’s uncle and Husna’s husband. He was the head male of the family and his word was law. One of the children carried a copper basin and an elaborately decorated pot filled with water for each member to use to wash their hands. In this compound, nothing had changed for centuries.
Haji greeted Darya in the traditional manner. “ Salaam ” he said, shaking her hand. He sat down on the cushion reserved for him, looking around to make sure that all of the family was present. It was unnecessary as everyone from the smallest baby to Husna would always be where they were expected to be and do what they were expected to do. No one did anything to offend Haji. His autocratic rule of his family was legendary and yet was typical of most Afghan families.
Servants brought in one dish after another: grilled lamb kebabs; Afghanistan’s national dish, quabili palao with meat and stock topped with fried raisins, slivered carrots and pistachios; rice with meatballs; dumplings; tandoori chicken; salad; naan and lavash breads; an onion based stew with beef, yogurt and spices; and stuffed grape leaves. Chutney and pickled fruits accompanied the dishes with dessert consisting of gosh e feel , thin fried pastries covered with powdered sugar and ground pistachios. They ate communal style, passing the food and eating with the fingers of their right hand. Each time a platter was empty another dish quickly replaced it. Darya knew this was one place she didn’t need to have her food tested for poisonous substances.
After dinner everyone left for their respective homes located within the compound and Haji went into his office. Husna and Darya sat and talked. Soon all of the dishes had been cleared and they were the only ones in the room. Darya’s aunt began to speak.
“Darya, there are things I must tell you. I have cancer and not long to live.”
“No, that can’t be!” Darya exclaimed, her hand unconsciously rising to her chest as if to ward off the thought. “You look so good. Surely there’s a mistake. What makes you think that?”
“Three doctors have told me I have a type of cancer that is incurable. No, don’t cry,” she said as she leaned over and brushed a tear from Darya’s cheek. “I have made my peace with Allah. Haji knows but refuses to accept it. He even had me flown to Paris in hopes a doctor there could help. That specialist told me the same thing. It is inoperable and incurable. Haji prays to Allah for me to be cured, but it’s no use. I need you to do something for me, but no one must know about it. It is really important to me. Will you?”
“Of course, Husna, whatever you need. Would you like to come to the United States and see doctors there? Father still teaches at Harvard and knows many doctors.”
“No, Darya, this has nothing to do with my health. Just listen to me and don’t interrupt. When I was married
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