up her knees beneath the quilt and said he ought to get some rest.
“God’s will,” he simmered.
He sat in his room smoking cigarettes all day.
Mariam lay on the couch, hands tucked between her knees, watched the whirlpool of snow twisting and spinning outside the window.
She remembered Nana saying once that each snowflake was a sigh heaved by an aggrieved woman somewhere in the world. That all
the sighs drifted up the sky, gathered into clouds, then broke into tiny pieces that fell silently on the people below.
As a reminder of how women like us suffer, she’d said. How quietly we endure all that falls upon us.
14.
T he grief kept surprising Mariam. All it took to unleash it was her thinking of the unfinished crib in the toolshed or
the suede coat in Rasheed’s closet. The baby came to life then and she could hear it, could hear its hungry grunts, its gurgles
and jabbering. She felt it sniffing at her breasts. The grief washed over her, swept her up, tossed her upside down. Mariam
was dumbfounded that she could miss in such a crippling manner a being she had never even seen.
Then there were days when the dreariness didn’t seem quite as unrelenting to Mariam. Days when the mere thought of resuming
the old patterns of her life did not seem so exhausting, when it did not take enormous efforts of will to get out of bed,
to do her prayers, to do the wash, to make meals for Rasheed.
Mariam dreaded going outside. She was envious, suddenly, of the neighborhood women and their wealth of children. Some had
seven or eight and didn’t understand how fortunate they were, how blessed that their children had flourished in their wombs,
lived to squirm in their arms and take the milk from their breasts. Children that they had not bled away with soapy water
and the bodily filth of strangers down some bathhouse drain. Mariam resented them when she overheard them complaining about
misbehaving sons and lazy daughters.
A voice inside her head tried to soothe her with well-intended but misguided consolation.
You’ll have others, Inshallah. You’re young. Surely you’ll have many other chances.
But Mariam’s grief wasn’t aimless or unspecific. Mariam grieved for this baby, this particular child, who had made her so happy for a while.
Some days, she believed that the baby had been an undeserved blessing, that she was being punished for what she had done to
Nana. Wasn’t it true that she might as well have slipped that noose around her mother’s neck herself? Treacherous daughters
did not deserve to be mothers, and this was just punishment. She had fitful dreams, of Nana’s jinn sneaking into her room at night, burrowing its claws into her womb, and stealing her baby. In these dreams, Nana cackled with
delight and vindication.
Other days, Mariam was besieged with anger. It was Rasheed’s fault for his premature celebration. For his foolhardy faith
that she was carrying a boy. Naming the baby as he had. Taking God’s will for granted. His fault, for making her go to the
bathhouse. Something there, the steam, the dirty water, the soap, something there had caused this to happen. No. Not Rasheed. She was to blame. She became furious with herself for sleeping in the wrong position, for eating meals that were too spicy, for
not eating enough fruit, for drinking too much tea.
It was God’s fault, for taunting her as He had. For not granting her what He had granted so many other women. For dangling
before her, tantalizingly, what He knew would give her the greatest happiness, then pulling it away.
But it did no good, all this fault laying, all these harangues of accusations bouncing in her head. It was kofr, sacrilege, to think these thoughts. Allah was not spiteful. He was not a petty God. Mullah Faizullah’s words whispered in
her head: 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.
Ransacked with
“God’s will,” he simmered.
He sat in his room smoking cigarettes all day.
Mariam lay on the couch, hands tucked between her knees, watched the whirlpool of snow twisting and spinning outside the window.
She remembered Nana saying once that each snowflake was a sigh heaved by an aggrieved woman somewhere in the world. That all
the sighs drifted up the sky, gathered into clouds, then broke into tiny pieces that fell silently on the people below.
As a reminder of how women like us suffer, she’d said. How quietly we endure all that falls upon us.
14.
T he grief kept surprising Mariam. All it took to unleash it was her thinking of the unfinished crib in the toolshed or
the suede coat in Rasheed’s closet. The baby came to life then and she could hear it, could hear its hungry grunts, its gurgles
and jabbering. She felt it sniffing at her breasts. The grief washed over her, swept her up, tossed her upside down. Mariam
was dumbfounded that she could miss in such a crippling manner a being she had never even seen.
Then there were days when the dreariness didn’t seem quite as unrelenting to Mariam. Days when the mere thought of resuming
the old patterns of her life did not seem so exhausting, when it did not take enormous efforts of will to get out of bed,
to do her prayers, to do the wash, to make meals for Rasheed.
Mariam dreaded going outside. She was envious, suddenly, of the neighborhood women and their wealth of children. Some had
seven or eight and didn’t understand how fortunate they were, how blessed that their children had flourished in their wombs,
lived to squirm in their arms and take the milk from their breasts. Children that they had not bled away with soapy water
and the bodily filth of strangers down some bathhouse drain. Mariam resented them when she overheard them complaining about
misbehaving sons and lazy daughters.
A voice inside her head tried to soothe her with well-intended but misguided consolation.
You’ll have others, Inshallah. You’re young. Surely you’ll have many other chances.
But Mariam’s grief wasn’t aimless or unspecific. Mariam grieved for this baby, this particular child, who had made her so happy for a while.
Some days, she believed that the baby had been an undeserved blessing, that she was being punished for what she had done to
Nana. Wasn’t it true that she might as well have slipped that noose around her mother’s neck herself? Treacherous daughters
did not deserve to be mothers, and this was just punishment. She had fitful dreams, of Nana’s jinn sneaking into her room at night, burrowing its claws into her womb, and stealing her baby. In these dreams, Nana cackled with
delight and vindication.
Other days, Mariam was besieged with anger. It was Rasheed’s fault for his premature celebration. For his foolhardy faith
that she was carrying a boy. Naming the baby as he had. Taking God’s will for granted. His fault, for making her go to the
bathhouse. Something there, the steam, the dirty water, the soap, something there had caused this to happen. No. Not Rasheed. She was to blame. She became furious with herself for sleeping in the wrong position, for eating meals that were too spicy, for
not eating enough fruit, for drinking too much tea.
It was God’s fault, for taunting her as He had. For not granting her what He had granted so many other women. For dangling
before her, tantalizingly, what He knew would give her the greatest happiness, then pulling it away.
But it did no good, all this fault laying, all these harangues of accusations bouncing in her head. It was kofr, sacrilege, to think these thoughts. Allah was not spiteful. He was not a petty God. Mullah Faizullah’s words whispered in
her head: 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.
Ransacked with
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