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Marjan sat with her back against the wall, her feet stretched out before her. She had called Soraya immediately upon returning
from the park.
“This is incredible. Marjan, are you thrilled or should I be thrilled for you?”
“I’m a little nervous about the Rasulis. They might not like that we met at their home. I don’t want them to think I was forward
with him,” Marjan said, fidgeting with the ends of her sleeves.
Soraya dismissed her concerns.
“Once they realize this is love, they’ll pat themselves on the back for bringing two souls together. Matchmaking must have
some sawab, does it not? What better way to secure blessings than by arranging a marriage! Has he already discussed this with
his family?”
Marriage. After what Marjan had seen of marriage, she never thought she’d even consider it in her lifetime. Soraya did not
share her hesitation, or even fully understand it. But Marjan knew that this feeling she had for Saboor, whatever it was,
could not exist without a structure. Not in this world.
“And I don’t mean to sound too forward,” Soraya continued.
“But I think he should ask me for your hand in marriage. I consider you a sister and it’s only right that he begs for my agreement.
And remember, tradition states the bride’s family should be showered with gifts.
Be sure to tell him my best colors are burgundy and navy, I favor flowy dresses, and I’m not picky about jewelry at all. ”
“This isn’t a very traditional situation,” Marjan reminded her friend. She was so deeply grateful for Soraya, for having someone
she could share this moment with. Sometimes Marjan would read Saboor’s messages to Soraya, needing her to confirm that she
wasn’t inventing him or this relationship.
“All the more reason to honor tradition,” Soraya insisted. “But, Marjan, can I ask you something?”
Marjan knew what was coming. Any best friend would ask.
“How do you really feel about him?”
For all the hours Marjan had spent pondering this very question, she should have had a ready and definitive answer for Soraya.
She did not.
“If you’re asking about love, I’m not sure I even know what that means,” Marjan admitted. That electricity, that flutter inside,
was that love’s signal? She listened to song lyrics these days with an analytical ear, tried to measure the lyrics against
her own feelings. Did she feel lost in his eyes? Had she even noticed the shape of his lips?
“Of course I’m not asking about love. How can a woman really love a man before she marries him? Before she knows what kind
of man he is when he’s been fasting all day and the electricity has just gone out and his wife is busy nursing their second
daughter? Love is earned and no one gets a salary before doing the job.”
“For heaven’s sake, Soraya. You turn everything into a rant. Then what do you mean?”
“I mean, do you think you can trust him? That’s the only question you need to answer now, I think. Can you trust that he will
treat you well? That he will be decent?”
“Soraya, you speak as if I have the luxury of options.”
“Marjan, you speak as if you have none.”
Marjan groaned.
“I love you as a sister. I will celebrate this moment with you so long as it’s your decision and you are confident in this man. And so long as you are not entering into this because you think you cannot expect anything else out of this life.”
“Soraya, this is me doing the very best I can for myself and my daughter. He’s been nothing but kind to me. Whatever comes,
I will make the best of it.”
After her years with Abdul Khaliq, Marjan could not believe she was even considering the possibility. Saboor had unlocked
something in her with his patience, his tenderness.
“Very well then,” Soraya said. “When should I expect to meet this poet suitor of yours?”
Saboor needed a day or two to sit down with his mother and sisters. He was excited to share the news with them, to tell them
his divorce would no longer hang over his head. He would be a married man after all, and he’d found his match on his own.
Two days passed, then three.
In every conversation, Marjan waited to hear about Saboor’s mother’s reaction. But the conversation was delayed first by his
niece coming down with a fever so high that he had taken her to the clinic. Two days later, the girl was much better, but
one of his father’s oldest friends had passed and Saboor was going to attend the fateha.
“Well? What’s the latest?” Soraya asked at the end of the week.
“He messaged me this morning and said he’s going to talk to his mother this afternoon,” Marjan reported. She was growing impatient
as well. She could not wait for her new life to be realized, to have a home with Saboor, a home where she could be with Hawa
and walk her to school every day, a home in which she wouldn’t have to be the only breadwinner.
“Ah, on a Friday! Maybe this was an auspicious decision to wait for the holy day,” Soraya speculated.
Marjan spent the afternoon handwashing Zargul’s delicates and hanging them from the hooks installed above the laundry machine.
Elbow deep in a bin of soapy water, she listened for the ping of her phone. Several times, she thought she heard something
and towel-dried her arms only to find her ears had deceived her.
Afternoon turned into evening.
How are you doing? Marjan texted Saboor.
His reply came nearly an hour later.
Forgive me, darling. It’s been a busy afternoon. Restaurant is packed but I was able to speak with my mother. She was so surprised.
She has been worried I would be forever single, of course.
Saboor punctuated his message with a flower and a smiley face. Marjan felt her shoulders relax.
Call me when you can, she wrote back.
Marjan could not sit still. She’d done her best to work out her nervous energies in the Rasuli home, but it had not been enough.
She stepped out of her room and filled her lungs with the night air, the faint scent of jasmine from the Rasuli garden, and
heard the sounds of life from over the estate’s walls.
Marjan missed Hawa terribly, even more now that it felt she was closer to being reunited with her daughter. She checked the
hour. It was late, but surely the girls at the orphanage were still awake. She called, telling herself she would only ask
after Hawa as she had been doing, but when a woman answered the phone, Marjan found herself asking to speak with her daughter.
“It is quite late and not your usual day to call. Would it not be better to call in the morning, at least?” she asked.
“Please. I don’t mean to trouble you. It’s just rather important that I speak to her,” Marjan pleaded. She heard a sigh and
then a request to hold. She steadied her breathing, thought about what she would say to her daughter. She hadn’t yet gathered
her thoughts when she heard Hawa’s voice on the line.
“Hello?” Hawa said, and Marjan pressed her hand to the wall, steadied herself.
“My love? It’s me,” Marjan said, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry it’s been this long. How are you, janem?”
“I’m fine,” Hawa said, her voice quiet and measured.
“Are you? I’ve missed you so much. I call all the time and get updates from Khanum Atefa. I’m so proud of you! She even sent me a picture of the cat you drew. Such long whiskers!” she gushed.
“You saw the cat drawing?” Hawa asked.
“I certainly did. And more. She knows how much it means to me to see your work.” Marjan waited for Hawa to speak.
“Oh. Why are you calling so late at night?” she asked, a hint of melancholy in her voice.
“It is late. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve been working so hard so that we can be together forever, not just for a visit.”
Marjan didn’t want to say anything more, but she wanted to brighten her mood too. “Hawa-jan, soon, though. Soon I’ll be able
to pick you up and we can live together again. Just like we used to.”
“That was a long time ago,” Hawa replied.
“It wasn’t that long ago. But no, you’re right. It was too long ago,” Marjan said. “I think things will be easier for us.
I’ve been working very hard and saving up and I . . . I hope I’ll have good news to share with you soon. Good news for both
of us.”
“What’s the good news?” Hawa asked, curious.
She couldn’t tell Hawa about Saboor over the phone. She wanted to have this conversation in person. This would require so
much care, so much preparation.
“I can’t tell you just yet, but I’m hoping we will have a new home soon. I really want to come and visit you. Would you like
that?”
“Yes! Why don’t you come today?”
“I wish I could but it’s late tonight, my love. I’ll do my very best to come tomorrow. Is that all right?”
“You won’t forget?” Hawa asked, and Marjan felt her heart being torn apart at the seams.
“I will not forget. I could never forget,” she swore.
The next day, Saboor insisted on traveling with her to the orphanage.
They shared a taxi, Marjan feeling very conscious of the driver, as if everyone in the world could tell they were unmarried by looking at them.
Saboor was unfazed. He reached for Marjan’s hand across the seat of the taxi.
She pulled her hand into her lap and widened her eyes to silently chide him, but he, true to his spirit, laughed and responded with a poem.
Today, I am in your hands
Be loving, do not forget.
Tomorrow when I become dust,
What use are tears of regret?
“Have you memorized all of Mawlana’s verses?” Marjan asked. She admired him for it, the sacred space he’d created in his soul
where poetry lived and his ability to recite it at the drop of a hat.
“Those are not Rumi’s words. Those belong to Hafiz,” he corrected. “He wrote for the lovesick.”
Marjan shook her head, looked away. She felt like a teenager, her youth restored by the flirting and these daylight transgressions.
She was righted by the sight of a burqa-clad woman sitting on the sidewalk, an infant in the crook of one arm and her other
arm stretched out begging for charity. Marjan saw women like this often and knew that even a half step in the wrong direction
could put her in that same predicament.
“I told my sisters as well,” Saboor said. Marjan turned and looked at him.
“You did?”
Saboor nodded.
“Do they know about today?” Marjan asked, choosing her words carefully so as not to give too much of her story away to the
driver. “Do they know about Hawa?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And?”
“And they have concerns, of course. That’s understandable. But they are mothers and I believe their hearts will warm to the
situation. That’s why I think the sooner we proceed, the better,” he said, reaching over to give Marjan’s hand a quick squeeze.
Marjan wasn’t surprised they had reservations, and Saboor’s reassurances soothed her. He knew his family, and they had told him repeatedly that he deserved happiness after what he went through in his first marriage.
Saboor started to hum. He was terribly off-key and turned the melody into an unrecognizable thing. He did this sometimes,
having realized that his warbling disarmed Marjan. She covered her face to hide her laughter. By the time they arrived at
the orphanage, she’d forgotten about his sisters and felt the nervous excitement of finally seeing her daughter again.
Saboor waited outside. They’d both agreed that he should not yet meet Hawa. He went for a stroll while Marjan went through
the gate and entered the familiar yard. The sunflowers were growing in height, as tall as the girls who lived inside.
Hawa ran into her arms, and Marjan held her tight. She missed the scent of her daughter’s head, the softness of her neatly
combed hair, parted down the middle and tied into two ponytails. Was she taller? She looked taller. They spent the hour connected,
Hawa’s hand in her mother’s. Marjan touching her daughter’s shoulders and face. Their eyes locked on each other. Marjan kissing
Hawa’s forehead, her shoulder.
Hawa told her about the songs she had learned that week and the new girl who had arrived only a week ago. She told her about
the games they played in the yard and showed her the schoolwork she’d completed, red stars drawn on the tops of thin worksheets.
When the time came to depart, Hawa did not scream or shout or throw herself on the ground.
“You told me on the phone that you had good news,” she said.
“I do. I think I have found a home for the two of us together,” Marjan said, her voice softly effervescent. “It shouldn’t
be much longer now.”
“But you said that so long ago,” Hawa insisted. “And you didn’t come for so long. I told the other girls that you would take
me with you today.”
Marjan cursed herself for whatever she might have said to give Hawa this idea. Her mind raced. What if she pulled her daughter
out of this school today? What if she hid her in her room behind the Rasuli home? What if she told Saboor they should do a
nikah right now? Being married before God was all she needed so that she and Hawa could live with him.
“We need to be patient, my love,” Marjan said.
Hawa began to sob.
“Hawa. Hawa, janem,” Marjan said, trying to break through the storm. She took her hands into her own, tried to ground her
with her touch.
“Just go. Just go just go just go,” Hawa moaned.
So she did. Once more, she ran out of the building and into the street where Saboor stood waiting for her. She stumbled into
his arms, her fingers cold and her face wet with tears. He cupped her face in his hands, brushed the tears away with his thumbs.
She was too devastated to care about people on the street witnessing this untamed moment, this public breach.
“Shh, my love,” Saboor said, guiding her back to the main road so that they could find a taxi. The sun had dipped behind the
mountain in a glorious sunset, an actor exiting the stage in a flourish. The sky was the color of faded ink, of secrets and
solitude. Of course Saboor would speak the words Marjan needed to hear most at that very moment. “All will be well soon enough.
We just need to bring her home.”