When the Moon Is Low (3 page)
Thankfully, Boba-
jan,
my grandfather, kept a close eye on us. He dropped by frequently, and KokoGul’s behavior was notably different in his presence. He would call Asad and me to walk with him, his pockets jingling with coins and candies; there was no visitor we looked forward to more than Boba-
jan
. He would ask us to recite our prayers while he inspected our clothing and pinched the fat of our arms. KokoGul
would watch him out of the corner of her eye, resentful of his mistrust.
But Boba-
jan
’s visits didn’t change much for me at home. As my sisters got older and KokoGul busied herself caring for them, I shouldered more and more of the household chores. I fed the chickens and tended to the goat. I beat the carpets daily and watched the younger girls. When Najiba reached school age, KokoGul argued that there was more to do than she could manage alone. My father conceded and I was relegated to home for another year. My younger sisters trotted off to learn the alphabet and numbers while I learned how to cook. My hands were chafed and cracked from scrubbing food stains from dirty clothes. Still, it stung more to stay in the kitchen while everyone else busily dressed for school in the morning.
KokoGul’s mania for superstitions made the situation even more maddening. Superstitions abound in our culture, but KokoGul took them on with a special zeal. We could not sleep with socks on, lest we go blind. If anyone dropped a piece of silverware, I was tasked with cleaning the house from top to bottom in anticipation of guests. If she coughed while eating or drinking, she cursed those who were undoubtedly speaking ill of her somewhere. I think that was her favorite, the conviction that others were jealous of the relatively privileged life she had.
As if popular superstitions weren’t enough, KokoGul created plenty of her own. Two birds flying overhead meant she would get into an argument with a close friend. If her onions burned on the fire, someone was bad-mouthing her cooking, and if she sneezed more than twice, evil spirits were toying with her. Padar-
jan
said nothing to KokoGul but would quietly tell us which interpretations she had invented so that we wouldn’t share them with others. He shouldn’t have bothered. KokoGul wasn’t the type to keep her thoughts to herself, and all the neighbors were familiar with her fantastic theories.
In one corner of our orchard stood a cluster of striking mulberry trees, their overgrown branches draped down, bringing tiny fruits
within arm’s reach. The trees were mature with heavy, rooted trunks. One tree in the center of the group had bark so knotted and gnarled that KokoGul swore she could make out the face of an evil spirit in its woody convolutions. She was petrified of the bark-carved face but loved the mulberries that came from the branches above. Whenever KokoGul fancied mulberries, she would summon me.
“Fereiba-
jan,
” she would call sweetly, pulling a ceramic bowl from the cupboard. “I need you to fetch some berries from the orchard. You know no one else can pluck those little fruits as delicately as you. I’ll get nothing but jam if I send anyone else to pick them.”
Her cajoling was unnecessary, but knowing KokoGul was too frightened to come out herself made me smile. As a skinny, stringy-haired twelve-year-old, I feared KokoGul more than the mysterious maze of trees in the orchard. In fact, in the light of day, when the house was full of people and demands, the orchard was my refuge.
One weekday night, with my sisters hunched over homework assignments, KokoGul was struck with a craving for mulberries. Obediently, I crept out the back door with an empty bowl and made my way to the familiar tree, the twisted bark snarling in the amber moonlight. Without daylight to help me, I let my fingers float through the leaves and guide me to the berries. I’d plucked no more than two or three when I felt a soft breeze behind me, as gentle as a whisper.
I turned around to see a luminous figure, a man, standing behind me. I dared not breathe as he placed his hand on my shoulder, so lightly that I hardly felt his touch.
I followed his long tapered fingers to his arm until I could take in all of him. He was old; a short, white beard covered his chin and crisscrossed wrinkles lined his face. Thick, white brows hung heavily, leaving just slits of his blue-gray eyes. He was a friend, I knew instantly. My racing heart slowed at the tender sound of his voice.
“Fereiba-
jan
. In the darkness, when you cannot see the ground under your feet and when your fingers touch nothing but night, you are not alone. I will stay with you as moonlight stays on water.”
I blinked and he was gone. I looked around, expecting to see him walking away through the trees, but there was nothing. I replayed his words in my mind, hearing his voice echo. I whispered them to myself to make them linger. Seldom had my name been said so lovingly.
“Fereiba!” KokoGul called out to me from the house. She had grown impatient.
Hastily, I grabbed as many mulberries as I could, my fingers purple with their ripe juice. I scurried back to the house, shooting an occasional glance over my shoulder lest the old man reappear. My hands trembled as I put the bowl down in front of KokoGul, who sat overseeing my sisters as they worked diligently in their notebooks. She started on her snack. I stood before her, unmoved.
“What is it? What’s happened to you?” she snapped.
“Madar-
jan,
I was outside—under the mulberry tree.”
“And?”
“It’s that, while I was there . . . I saw an old man. He came from light, from
roshanee
. He said my name and he told me that I was not alone. He said he would stay with me.” As I said the words, I could hear his voice in my head.
“An old man? So where did he go?” KokoGul squinted and leaned forward pointedly.
“He disappeared. He came so suddenly; I felt his hand on my shoulder. As soon as he finished what he had to say, he disappeared. I didn’t see where he went—he just vanished! I don’t know who he was.” I was breathless but not frightened. I waited for KokoGul to interpret what I’d seen.
“
B’isme-Allah!
” KokoGul exclaimed, praising God. “You have seen an angel! That’s who he was, you simpleminded girl! Oh, not to recognize an angel when he taps you on the shoulder and promises to watch over you!”
An angel? Could it be? Grandfather had told us stories about angels and their celestial powers when he recited
suras
with us. How blind I had been not to recognize an angel before me! KokoGul went on, ranting that I did not appreciate this unearthly encounter. My sisters
looked on wide-eyed. Her sharp voice faded as the angel’s words echoed in my mind.
He would watch over me. My guardian angel would bring
roshanee
to the path ahead. I would never be alone.
The following
Jumaa,
Friday, we waited for my father to return from the
masjid
. KokoGul had instructed my father to pray that she and her daughters would also receive a visit from a guardian angel. My father hadn’t said much about my encounter. I didn’t know what or how much he believed.
KokoGul and I believed together. In this, we were united. She saw small changes in me, and I saw what those changes did to her. I walked taller. I followed her instructions but didn’t quiver before her as I once had. I wandered in and out of the orchard boldly, day and night. I half expected my angel to reappear and offer soft words of comfort.
KokoGul was beside herself. To her friends, she boasted that I, her daughter, had been visited by an angel. The visit was a herald of good fortune, and she hoped to absorb some of that light. She began to examine her dreams with more diligence, looking for clues that the heavens were communicating with her too. I heard her newly charged supplications when she prayed at home. She spoke to me a little more sweetly, with a gentle hand stroking my hair.
My sisters were curious about the whole matter but unable to grasp KokoGul’s yearning to meet the man I’d seen in the orchard. Najiba, closest to me in age, was most puzzled by KokoGul’s reactions.
“What did the angel look like, Fereiba? Were you scared of him?” she asked curiously. We were sitting cross-legged on the floor, shelling peas from their pods.
“He just looked like an old man, like somebody’s grandfather.” My words felt far too simple, but I didn’t know how else to answer.
“Whose grandfather? Our grandfather?”
“No, not anyone we know. Just a grandfather,” I paused, wanting to do him justice. “He glowed and he knew my name.” I tossed a handful of peas into the bowl between us.
Najiba was quiet, considering my explanation. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t see him. I think I would have been scared.”
I might have said the same had I not been there to see his blue-gray eyes. His gentle voice had filled the darkness and left no room for fear. Still, Najiba made me feel brave.
KokoGul didn’t quite see it the same. She began to absorb my encounter as her own, vicarious experience. I heard her talking to two friends over tea one day.
“And then he disappeared? Just like that?”
“Did you expect a horse and carriage would come and carry him off?” KokoGul said in her trademark snappish way. Unless they were the target of the sarcasm, her friends were typically entertained by it.
“God must be watching over her to have sent an angel to her,” said one.
“You know, the poor thing, her mother’s spirit in heaven watches over her. Must have had something to do with it,” said the other sympathetically.
The reference to my mother inspired KokoGul’s imagination. “I asked Fereiba to go to the orchard that night. I rarely get such cravings for the mulberries, but something mysterious had come over me. My tongue began to tickle for those sweet berries. I tried to ignore it but I couldn’t help myself. As if something in those trees was beckoning me, I wanted to run out there. But I was busy helping the girls with their homework so I asked Fereiba to pick a few for me. She’s such a good daughter, she went off into the orchard for me. So I’m not sure who the angel was supposed to meet. Maybe that craving was his way of calling me. But I sent Fereiba-
jan
in my stead, so we’ll never know.”
The women didn’t seem too impressed with KokoGul’s theory, but they didn’t challenge her. I entered the room, carefully balancing a tray with three hot cups of tea in one hand and carrying a bowl of sugar in the other.
“Afghan carpets were made with Fereiba-
jan
in mind,” KokoGul announced. “Thanks to their red color, you would never know how
much tea gets spilled on them.” There was light laughter, and my head stayed lowered. I smiled politely as I placed a cup before each woman and offered sugar cubes. I could feel myself being scrutinized.
“
Afareen, dokhtar-
jan,” KokoGul commended.
Well done, dear daughter.
I retreated to the kitchen with the empty metal tray. Today I was her daughter.
In truth, most days I was her daughter. Because I wasn’t attending school, I spent a lot of time at home with KokoGul. Indeed, the weight of the household fell mostly on my shoulders, and she reprimanded me severely when things weren’t done to her liking. But I was with her the most. We spent hours together preparing meals, cleaning the house, and tending to the animals. Her sharp tongue needed an audience—or a target. I loved going to the bazaar with her. Inspecting a pile of bruised tomatoes, she asked the vegetable vendor if his hefty wife had mistakenly sat on his produce. At the housewares shop, she asked if the overpriced dishware was from the king’s private collection. KokoGul’s wit either rubbed the wrong way or scored a chuckle and a discount.
We were allies when we bargained our way through the things we needed: the meats, the vegetables, the shoes. I mimicked KokoGul’s brazen demeanor and negotiated the best price I could. She would nod approvingly. In the market and the chores, my younger sisters could not do anything as well as I did.
“Najiba, look at this,” she would complain. “This shirt still turns the water brown. How can you think this is clean? Have you seen how your sister makes a good lather? How many times have I told you—you can’t expect a shirt to clean itself! Thank goodness I at least have one daughter who can actually help me around the house.”
These were moments when I felt connected to her, this woman who was my mother, without being my mother.
EACH NIGHT MY BROTHER AND MY SISTERS WORKED ON THEIR
school lessons, pencils in their right hands, erasers in their left. They sat with elbows propped up on the table, chins in their palms while they read, memorized, added and subtracted. At first, they stumbled over the letters, learning how each character was connected to its neighbor with curved strokes. The dots, the dashes carefully placed, bringing words to life. Then came phrases, short simple sentences describing the daily activities of obedient boys and girls. When they started to learn the complex Arabic of the Qur’an, I grew even more envious. I’d learned to recite these prayers under my grandfather’s tutelage, but I hadn’t been taught to read the text itself.
They played with numbers. In singsong chants, they learned multiplication tables. I listened. On paper, they manipulated numbers and symbols. They learned to calculate, to make sense of digits.
They learned stories. The history of our country. The rise of kings and their sons. How our country was carved from the mountains. My brother was first to learn the national anthem and would
sing it, a hand up in salute. My sisters learned play songs from their classmates, the rhythm and lyrics putting a hop in their carefree gait as they walked hand in hand.
Coo coo coo, leaf of a plane tree
Girls seated in a row neatly
Plucking pomegranate seeds
If only a pidgeon I could be