I sensed an unease in her now
I immediately dismissed both scenarios as absurd. Fathers and sons could talk freely about women. But no Afghan girl–no decent and mohtaram Afghan girl, at least–queried her father about a young man. And no father, especially a Pashtun with nang and namoos, would discuss a mojarad with his daughter, not unless the fellow in question was a khastegar, a suitor, who had done the honorable thing and sent his father to knock on the door.
Incredibly, I heard myself say, “Would you like to read one of my stories??
“I would like that,?she said. I sensed an unease in her now, saw it in the way her eyes began to flick side to side. Maybe checking for the general. I wondered what he would say if he found me speaking for such an inappropriate length of time with his daughter.
“Maybe I’ll bring you one someday,?I said. I was about to say more when the woman I’d seen on occasion with Soraya came walking up the aisle. She was carrying a plastic bag full of fruit. When she saw us, her eyes bounced from Soraya to me and back. She smiled.
“Amir jan, good to see you,?she said, unloading the bag on the tablecloth. Her brow glistened with a sheen of sweat. Her red hair, coiffed like a helmet, glittered in the sunlight–I could see bits of her scalp where the hair had thinned. She had small green eyes buried in a cabbage-round face, capped teeth, and little fingers like sausages. A golden Allah rested on her chest, the chain burrowed under the skin tags and folds of her neck. “I am Jamila, Soraya jan’s mother.?
“Salaam, Khala jan,?I said, embarrassed, as I often was around Afghans, that she knew me and I had no idea who she was.
“How is your father??she said.
“He’s well, thank you.?
“You know, your grandfather, Ghazi Sahib, the judge? Now, his uncle and my grandfather were cousins,?she said. “So you see, we’re related.?She smiled a cap-toothed smile, and I noticed the right side of her mouth drooping a little. Her eyes moved between Soraya and me again.
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