A House Without Windows (13 page)

GULNAZ STRETCHED HER LEGS ON THE FLOOR CUSHION AND
leaned her head against the wall. She'd spent all day avoiding everyone. She wanted to speak with Rafi, but he wasn't yet back from town. His wife, Shokria, watched her nervously. Gulnaz scowled and kept her green eyes averted. On more than one occasion, Shokria had whispered to her sister that her mother-in-law's emerald eyes bored into her so intensely she could feel her muscles knot.

Gulnaz knew what people thought of her. As daughter of the powerful
murshid,
people had always treated her with cautious respect. And when they caught a glimpse of her green eyes, she could see them hesitate to take their next breath, as if she might have cursed the very air around them. Even as a young girl, her aunts and cousins had thrown accusing looks her way when things went wrong, as if it were her fault they'd oversalted the stew or tripped on a stone in the courtyard. No one else in the family had green eyes, which made them all the more striking. By the time she was two, the family had concluded she'd been born with a twisted form of the
murshid
's powers, not the kind that drew people in hopes of blessings and good fortune, but the kind that could bring on a toothache or destroy a field of crops.

Gulnaz was an only child, another oddity attributed to her mysterious powers.

She must have cast a
nazar
on her mother's womb in the nine months she was in there. Not a single child after her! Allah have mercy!

When Gulnaz was born, Afghanistan had been flirting with madness. The Soviets had just helped build an airport in Kabul. They poured money into the small country, showering her with compliments and adorning her wrists and ears with jewelry.

In hard times, when the
murshid
seemed to have lost his connection to the Almighty, onion fields remained fallow. Horses fell ill and died. Prayers went unanswered. Rumors spread that the
murshid
was a spy for outside nations. He was selling out his own Afghans, they said. He was an emissary for the Russians, the Americans, or the British, depending on who was asked, feeding them information about the local officials and the movements of the mujahideen. Any bottle of perfume, any ink pen, any nickel-plated teakettle in his home was evidence of his duplicity.

But when people were desperate enough, they'd turn even to a suspected spy if it meant putting food back on their tables or saving the life of a child.

Gulnaz had watched her father puff from the attention of the townspeople. Visitors would come to their home, arms laden with gifts, and cry their woes to the
murshid
. He would listen to them, cup his hands in supplication with them. And then, as if a broken pipe had been soldered back together, the
murshid
's prayers would restore life and hope.

It was not surprising that his body aged at a different pace than those around him. The unending pleas from neighbors, the scandalizing rumors, and the strife within the family compound weighed heavily on him. Prestige was a blessing and a beast.

Her father had never believed that people actually gave weight to the superstitions about green eyes. He would smile softly and brush his daughter's hair from her eyes.

“These eyes? How could anyone think these eyes would bring anything but joy?
Nazar
is born from a lack of faith. It is something
that exists where God does not. Your eyes are not the source of
nazar,
Gulnaz. Everyone in our village should know better than to think that.”

But they didn't know better. Gulnaz and her mother kept out of sight when visitors called upon the
murshid,
which they did nearly daily. Gulnaz would hide in the courtyard of their home and watch as his magic unfolded. When she was nine or ten, she became more curious as to what her father did that had people leave looking so comforted, as if a burden had been lifted from their shoulders.

She followed one visitor to find out. A man with a basket of eggs was escorted by one of Gulnaz's cousins, led through the compound at a leisurely stroll, making small talk along the way. In the meantime, another cousin darted around the back of the house, with Gulnaz close behind. He made his way to the room where Safatullah received guests. Breathless, he told the
murshid
about the visitor, the basket of eggs he had brought and his ailing wife.

The man was announced, entering the room with his head bowed and a hand over his heart in respect. The
murshid
extended a hand in greeting and kissed his guest's cheeks. From the hallway behind the sitting room, Gulnaz could hear her father clear his throat.

“It is wonderful to see you, my friend, though I wish you would have come under happier circumstances. I sense something troubles you deeply.”

“You're most right, Safatullah-
sahib,
” the man said, his voice gravelly with emotion.

“And what weighs on your mind most doesn't seem to be what troubles lesser men. You are not here to ask God for more food or more land. No, your heart has no greed. You are here about something far more important.”

“Oh, good
murshid
! My soul is bare to you!”

“Your eyes tell your pain. How is your dear wife doing?”

“She is not well,
sahib
. She grows weaker by the day. The fevers come and go. Her skin and eyes have yellowed. I beg her to eat, but she can't bring anything to her lips. I fear the children will soon be
without a mother, and I don't know what else to do. We've tried all the remedies my elders recommended for us.”

“You must have faith. Allah knows best for you. He will not allow her to suffer this way, not when you have both been such devout people. God is merciful, my dear friend. Let's make a prayer together . . .”

With hands cupped, heads bowed, and shoulders swaying side to side, the men would pray. Gulnaz's cousin caught a glimpse of her peeking into the room and shooed her away.

Gulnaz was struck by the way her father had spoken, a voice so different from what she was accustomed to. The voice of the
murshid
was patient, soothing. Her father's voice was harsher, sometimes angry, other times jovial. It was as if he were two different men, one for his family and one for the townspeople who called upon him for miracles. Gulnaz started to learn from him then. She would hide and listen carefully, her back to the wall and her ears straining to catch every word. She learned the right tone of voice, the right words, when to pause. Some things she added on her own, the tilt of her head, the clasp of her hands. She practiced when no one was around, whispering prayers in the dark before she went to sleep as if she were rehearsing for a day when she would take her father's place. Only her mother noticed, and she was more amused than anything else.

The more Gulnaz watched her father, the more intrigued she became by the amount of respect he garnered for his simple efforts. People often came back, praising him with more gifts when their prayers had been answered. For those who were not so fortunate, the
murshid
offered gentle explanations and guided them through their sadness. The poor man with the basket of eggs came back devastated when his wife succumbed to her illness.

“You see, my friend. Allah did not allow her to suffer. Allah knows best and will take care of your children. Let's pray together for your children now . . .”

And in that way, disquieted hearts were calmed. People found
solace. The
murshid
remained beloved and needed, a pillar of the community. Gulnaz became hungry for the same adoration, the same power. She asked her father if she could sit with him while he received his visitors but he refused. She asked him to teach her how he performed his miracles, how he raised the people's prayers to God's ears.

“It's not a thing that should be taken lightly,” he said, shaking his head. “What I do is not to entertain myself or others. It is not because I want people bowing at my feet. It's because people are in need of help. They need something that I can offer, and Allah has pointed to me to fill this need. It is not something I chose. It was chosen for me.”

Gulnaz knew he was speaking from his heart. She knew because his voice was abrupt and sharp—it was her father's voice, not the placating voice of the
murshid
.

When she tried to pray out loud and within her family compound, she was met with cynical looks from her cousins, aunts, and uncles. They questioned her motives and shook their heads at her attention-seeking. In their skeptical eyes, she wasn't devout. She was playing with fire.

But Gulnaz wanted to be good. She wanted to look after people the way her father did. She copied his prayers, she mimicked his words. She would pop in and tell relatives that she had prayed for them or for their children.

But when a family refused to give their daughter's hand in marriage, when a son broke his leg playing soccer, when a woman's face broke out in hives—they would remember that Gulnaz had stopped by that morning, that week, or even a month ago. She was turned away, politely by some and forcefully by others.

These were the same people who would kiss the
murshid
's hands in gratitude for a simple
dua
. Gulnaz could not understand why her benevolent gestures were met with such resistance.

“It has nothing to do with your faith,” her mother had explained. “It has everything to do with theirs.”

Gulnaz, at ten years old, had become embittered. It felt as if ev
erything that went wrong was thrown at her feet, even when she kept to herself. Outside her family's compound, she was not the beloved daughter of the
murshid
. She was Gulnaz with the dangerous green eyes.

She was meant to do bigger things. She was meant to affect people, she knew. Why couldn't they see it?

Safatullah told her not to distress herself. Sometimes people needed time to understand what was best for them.

Disappointed, Gulnaz bottled the gifts she believed she'd inherited from her father. But inside of her, they began to boil over and transform into a very different energy. She could not hold it in.

She decided to live up to the image they'd created of her. When the mood struck her, she could make their narrowed eyes quiver with fright.

Gulnaz liked how powerful she felt. She was in control.

By the time she was an adolescent, Gulnaz had harnessed the effect her green eyes had on others. With a few careful, sweet words, she could manipulate situations to suit her mood. For Gulnaz, it became a sport. Since she'd never known a time when people saw her as innocent, she didn't feel guilty about it in the least. They'd created this Gulnaz, this young woman who drew strength from their suspicions, from their fears. Her extended family treated her delicately, loving her at arm's length and burning
espand
seeds in her wake to smoke away the effect of her gaze. Her mother resented how the family treated Gulnaz and was proud that her daughter had learned to use their fears against them. It was much better than being their victim.

Gulnaz loved her father, the
murshid,
as any daughter would, but she was utterly devoted to her mother. Her mother understood her and loved her wholly, unconditionally. From the moment she opened her eyes in the morning, she could feel her mother's watchful gaze. She would see her whispering prayers and blowing blessings her way. Because of her mother, Gulnaz could walk tall through the compound regardless of the mood of the rest of the family.

“My daughter, keep your tricks to yourself for now. You're a young woman, and this is not the time to show off the things you can do. Those are a woman's talents, not a girl's.”

Gulnaz understood her mother was preparing her for marriage. She came from a much respected family and was unquestionably beautiful, but if word trickled out into the rest of town that she could wreak havoc on a household with a pinch of spice and a ball of clay, no family would even consider courting her for their son.

Gulnaz didn't think much of marriage, but out of respect for her mother, she did as she was told. Her mother casually mentioned that Gulnaz had outgrown her make-believe powers. Gulnaz, doing her part, kept her eyes safely downcast. She kept a neutral smile on her face and pretended to be a demure girl. By the time two years had passed, the family had grown considerably more welcoming toward her. Gulnaz missed the way she could send ripples through family gatherings but took solace in the knowledge that she'd simply reined in her powers. That, too, was a manifestation of her control.

WHEN GULNAZ TURNED FIFTEEN, HER MOTHER BEGAN TO TAKE
her to festivals and gatherings. She was old enough to sit with the women and be seen at her mother's side. Her looks were quite striking, and the women took notice. She could feel eyes on her, checking the fullness of her eyebrows, the straightness of her teeth, the promising curve of her hips. The boys in town became intrigued by the excited descriptions their mothers shared with them.

Remember to act like a lady,
her mother would warn her before they left the house
. Answer questions politely and kiss the hands of the gray haired. Keep your voice and words soft. We're the
murshid
's family and people expect more of us.

Gulnaz would nod her head. She'd been hearing the same instructions since she'd been a little girl and knew perfectly well how to carry herself.

It was fall and just a few months from Gulnaz's sixteenth birth
day. The
murshid
's family had been invited to a wedding. The groom belonged to one of the more well-to-do families in town, who had expressly invited Safatullah, grateful for the blessings he'd given their son before his engagement, and insisted that his wife and daughter accompany him for the celebration.

Gulnaz was excited. She'd never attended a wedding before. The promise of music, dancing, and lavish dresses tickled her curiosity.

Her dress was picked out months before the party. Just before leaving the house, Gulnaz's mother retrieved a pair of eighteen-karat gold filigree earrings from her jewelry box and placed them in her daughter's palm. Gulnaz put them on and swiveled her head side to side to feel them dangle from her lobes. She felt positively exquisite, considering her usual unadorned attire.