The Dressmaker of Khair Khana (7 page)

The storekeeper returned the smile he could not see. “Very good. Then I will take five pantsuits and three dresses. Can you have them ready by next week?”

Kamila assured him she could. The store owner then took down bolts of polyester blends and rayon in different colors from a shelf behind him. Picking up his scissors, he cut enough material to make the suits he had ordered and placed the fabric into a dark shopping bag that he handed to Rahim. Throughout their short exchange Kamila saw that he had been keeping a close watch on the doorway for any sign of the Amr bil-Maroof. He had no desire to be caught speaking with a female customer, even if her mahram was present. So far things had been uneventful.

“Okay, then, I will see you in a week,” he said. “I am Mehrab. What is your name so that I can know you when you come back?” Now that everyone had to wear the chadri, all his customers looked the same.

Where her answer came from, Kamila did not know. But as soon as the shop owner had spoken she realized it was too dangerous to use her real name.

“Roya,” Kamila said. “My name is Roya.”

Picking up her black carry-all from the counter, Kamila thanked Mehrab and promised she would return the following week. She and Rahim left the store and made their way back toward the street. Though the entire transaction had taken less than fifteen minutes, Kamila felt as if hours had passed.

Walking back into the gray morning, Kamila was nearly bursting with excitement. She felt that she was at the beginning of something important, something that could change their lives for the better. She fervently hoped so, but she admonished herself to stay focused. “No need to get ahead of myself when there is so much work to be done. Let's just get the first order finished right. No more big ideas until then.”

“Come, let's go home and tell the girls!”

Throughout the visit with the storekeeper Rahim had stood still as a tree, watching his sister protectively. Even when Mehrab had placed his order, Rahim had been careful to show no emotion. He didn't want to give anyone a reason to look more closely at the transaction that was taking place inside the shop. Now that they were outside he beamed at his older sister and congratulated her on getting her first order. He was very proud of her work.

“I was so surprised when you told him to call you Roya,” he said. “That was the only time I almost slipped and laughed! You are really a good saleswoman, Kamila Jan.”

Kamila laughed softly beneath her chadri.

“And you are a very good mahram,” she said. “Mother would be proud.”

She kept them moving at a steady pace, for they needed to be far from Lycee Myriam by the time they heard the call to prayer.

Kamila felt invigorated; for the first time since the Taliban's arrival four months earlier she had something to look forward to. And something to work for. She walked back toward the house with a bounce in her gait as Rahim marveled out loud at his sister's new name. “Roya,” he said. “Roya Jan.” He practiced saying it again, trying to get used to it, just as he had gotten used to being the only boy in a house full of girls, all of whom now depended on him for nearly everything they needed from the outside world.

As they walked, Kamila contemplated the long list of supplies she would need to make the dresses and suits: thread, beads, and needles, along with a workspace big enough for them to spread open the fabric so they could see what they were making. They would have to clear out part of the living room, she resolved. When Kamila had visited Karteh Parwan, Malika had generously offered to lend one of her trusted “zigzags”; now the younger sister was tempted to accept the offer. If they delivered their work on time and were able to win more orders, maybe they would even be able to buy another machine for all of them to share. Who knows, perhaps one day they would have work for some other girls in their neighborhood who were stuck at home just as they were. All of this, however, was still a long way off. Right now, beginning this very evening, there was a great deal of sewing and teaching to attend to.

At last they crossed the barren courtyard and burst into the house. Kamila tossed her empty black bag onto the floor near the door and walked into the living room, where Saaman and Laila waited anxiously. The girls unleashed a barrage of questions as soon as their siblings entered the living room.

Kamila assured them they had made it just fine, and traced their route through the backstreets of Khair Khana. No, they hadn't seen anything bad or had any trouble and yes, they saw the shopkeeper. . . .

She paused for a moment to let the anticipation build.

“I have some news,” she started. Both her tone and her face were stony and serious.

“We got an order!”

A triumphant smile spread across her cheeks, and the girls broke out in a ripple of relieved laughter.

“Oh, that is excellent!” cried Laila, applauding her sister's work. She, too, was full of enthusiasm now that they finally had an important task ahead of them. “Well done, Kamila Jan. Now we have to get started! What are we supposed to make?”

Kamila grinned at her sister's impetuousness. She was delighted to see that the girls were as excited as she was, and that they were ready to begin that very minute. At least we have a lot of energy, she thought, even if none of us has any experience!

Kamila described Mehrab's order and told her sisters they would have to learn to sew quickly. “It won't be easy,” she assured them, “but I am sure we can get it done. If I can learn, so can you!”

“We will be fine, Kamila,” said Saaman, confident and poised as always. “If we have to ask our friends for help, we will.”

“Okay, then,” Kamila answered, “we'll get started with our first sewing lesson after lunch. We are officially in business!”

“And you must call her Roya now,” Rahim advised his sisters. The girls looked at Kamila, eager for an explanation.

Kamila recounted the story, explaining how her false identity would protect both her and Mehrab the shopkeeper. He wouldn't be able to identify her should the Taliban ever question him for speaking to or, much worse, doing business with a woman at the bazaar. No one at Lycee Myriam would ever see Kamila's face under the chadri, and none of their neighbors had ever heard of Roya. She was safe, at least for now, and she urged her sisters to remember to call her Roya if they ever accompanied her to the market. Kamila/Roya felt relieved to see that her sisters understood the need for her alias. And she appreciated the look of respect they showed her for her quick--and smart--thinking on the spot.

Malika would be proud, Kamila thought, smiling inwardly.

The idea of getting to work thrilled Saaman and Laila, though they had no idea how they would learn to sew in time to deliver according to their sister's schedule. Like Kamila, Saaman had always been absorbed in her studies and had never before made anything by hand. She confided to her sister that she was nervous she would make hundreds of mistakes and ruin their first order. Laila showed far less hesitation; the bold teenager figured the only way she was going to become a good dressmaker was by trying. Just as Malika had shown her in her corner workspace in Karteh Parwan, Kamila began by teaching her sisters how to cut the fabric. Laila followed along, making only a few small mistakes as she went. Saaman, the most studious among them, watched motionless, and fixed her gaze on Kamila's steady hand as it cut the material.

“Come on,” Laila ribbed Saaman, “it's not so hard, just try it!”

Elated as she was about receiving her first order, Kamila too felt nervous. Right now she was the only one who knew anything about sewing--and she hardly qualified as an experienced tailor. She had to get this right if they were to attract more business.

And then, quite unexpectedly, as if in answer to her prayers, came the best news she could have asked for.

“Kamila, Kamila, did you hear?” cried Rahim, running into the living room to find his sister. She sat sewing on the floor, lost in her work trying to pin an unruly bead onto a piece of fabric.

“Malika is coming home. She'll be here tomorrow!”

“What?” said Kamila. “Tomorrow? Oh, that is just wonderful!”

She put down her sewing and basked in relief. Malika had always been the dependable big sister, the reliable one who had kept her younger siblings out of trouble. Right now they needed her steady hand. Kamila herself was only a teenager, and she was finding it hard to focus on her business while keeping an eye on her four younger sisters, helping Rahim with his classwork, and making sure they had enough food and fuel to keep the house functioning.

“Yes,” said Rahim, “Najeeb talked to her about it before he went. He thought it would be better if we all lived together. It took a little while for her and Farzan to arrange everything, especially with the twins, but his family agreed it would be better if they came here.”

The twins. Kamila was as delighted to spend more time with her newborn nieces as she was to see her sister. And she was thrilled at the prospect of being able to return the favor and help Malika, who had given birth to the babies prematurely just two months earlier. She got up from her seat and walked into Malika's old room to begin sweeping out her younger sisters' things.

Every time I think things are bad, something happens, and we get through it, Kamila thought to herself. Father was right; we just have to keep doing our part and everything will be okay. God is watching out for us.

Days later the girls filled with joy at the sight of one of Kabul's familiar yellow-and-white taxis pulling up to their green gate. Malika was back.

Since the arrival of the Taliban several months earlier, life had quickly devolved into a series of challenges for the twenty-four-year-old mother of four. Her sisters may have seen her as their rock, but Malika and her husband, Farzan, were reeling both financially and emotionally. With women barred from schools she could no longer work, so her family had to survive without her monthly teacher's salary. Now, with the economy shrinking by the day and fewer and fewer goods coming in and out of Kabul, demand for Farzan's trucking business had dried up to almost zero. In just months the family had gone from two incomes to less than one.

Malika's tailoring work plus a small amount of savings kept the family going. But she worried constantly about her children. Her twin girls had been born weeks early and had been fighting off infections ever since. In a city which so many doctors had fled and where the infrastructure and sanitation systems had been wrecked by decades of war, this was nearly a death sentence. The babies remained tiny and frail, and Malika shuttled them regularly to the clinic, struggling to fill their expensive prescriptions. Now back in Khair Khana she saw how fragile things were in her parents' home, and how much her sisters--and everyone else in her life--needed her. She was exhausted, but determined to do all that the moment demanded: to be a mentor for her sisters' new tailoring operation, and to continue her own work sewing suits and dresses for clients who valued her skill and creativity. Above all else, she would care for her struggling family. Though it had been hard to leave her friends and in-laws in Karteh Parwan, she knew her place was here in Khair Khana with her sisters.

By the time Malika arrived, the girls had managed to finish most of their first order. The days had rolled by quickly, and soon after they began their new commission they invited Razia, a neighbor and friend, to join them. Kamila had told her about the tailoring work, and Razia had been eager to join so she could help her own family. Her father was too old to work, and her older brother, like Kamila's, had been forced to leave Kabul because of security issues. With no money coming in each month her parents could barely cover even the basics of food and winter clothing. For their part, the girls were happy to have another pair of hands and the company of an old friend they could trust. As she sat with her friends on pillows in the living room sewing the last of the dresses, cups of now-cold chai sitting in front of them, Razia watched the hours speed by. She felt lucky to be able to think about something other than her family's troubles. She told Kamila how happy she was to be working, and the two of them began exchanging ideas for expansion.

“I think there are other tailors who would be interested in our work,” Kamila said. “We just need to find them.”

Razia was ready to assist Kamila with anything the business needed, including finding more women to help. “I could ask around the neighborhood,” she volunteered, “but only to friends we can trust, of course.” With stories circulating of neighbors informing on one another to the Amr bil-Maroof, they had to be careful not to work with anyone who would talk about what they were doing. Kamila knew that her team of seamstresses was doing nothing unlawful according to the official rules, which clearly stated that women could work at home so long as they stayed inside and did not mix with men. But no one was safe from the Taliban government's most zealous enforcers. Anything that involved the behavior of women was open to interpretation--and punishment--by the young soldiers on the hunt for offenders day and night. Even behind closed doors the girls had to be cautious.

Despite all the risk, Kamila remained invigorated by her work, and she began to plan her next trip to Lycee Myriam. The girls had shown her this past week that they were up to the challenge of filling more and even bigger orders. Almost without trying they had settled into a routine that she felt certain would allow them to grow their fledgling venture. In the mornings they would rise at around six-thirty or seven, washing and saying their prayers before moving on to breakfast and finishing their pieces from the evening before. Late in the morning they began reviewing the items they had finished the day before and cutting fabric for the next set of dresses and suits.

Kamila acted as the team's quality control officer, checking everyone's handiwork to make certain that each stitch lived up to the standard Malika had set. Saaman continued to be cautious about cutting without Kamila's supervision, and Kamila continued to remind her that she really didn't need help--she was learning fast and was becoming an excellent tailor, even better than Kamila herself. At noon they would stop for prayers and lunch before returning to their needles. After prayers and dinner, they would heat the wood-fired bukhari and sit together by the orange glow of the hurricane lamps, sewing until late in the night. Most of the time the girls worked in silence, engrossed in their fabric and fully focused on their deadline.