Read Online A House Without Windows by Nadia Hashimi - Free Book Online Page B

ruined. In four days, she’d done nothing but contribute to the slow undoing of these walls, disappointing the curious women around her. A web of whispers laced through the prison, and with every hushed voice, the account of what Zeba had done changed, sometimes merely by degrees, but sometimes by great leaps.
    You know she killed her lover—so that her husband wouldn’t. Can you imagine that kind of passion?
    It wasn’t her lover, it was her sister’s husband. He was trying to fool around with her while his wife and her husband weren’t looking.
    If she killed him, it must have been for good reason.
    You’re such gossips. Besides, I heard she cut off his head and ran through the village with it.
    Zeba had never gushed or blushed over Kamal before they were married. She’d never even seen him before their engagement. At her grandfather’s recommendation, her mother and brother had given her away when she was seventeen. She’d had no say in the arrangement, a decision made between her grandfather, Safatullah, and Kamal’s grandfather five years before their wedding date. Safatullah was a well-known murshid in their village, and her mother went along withthe decision since Kamal’s grandfather was a respected army general. The two grandfathers were good friends who’d played chess together, prayed together, and despised the same people.
    As murshid, Zeba’s grandfather was a spiritual guide, offering invaluable blessings and a connection to the Almighty. Kamal’s grandfather brought to the table a more earthly benefit, alliances with all the right people in the new government. Zeba’s family owned a great deal of land and needed highly placed friends to secure their hold on it.
    In a demonstration of brotherly commitment, the two men orchestrated a marriage, tying their families together with a union that would create common blood.
    Zeba’s mother, Gulnaz, had protested the marriage, begging her father to reconsider the arrangement. Her husband’s family, out of respect for the murshid, had agreed to his suggestion years ago and were of no help.
    She is young and it is a bad time for a marriage, Gulnaz insisted. Let us wait a bit more.
    The Soviets had retreated nearly sixteen years ago but in the absence of any real leadership or government, Afghanistan had spiraled into a civil war. Her fate was still unclear.
    If you’re waiting for the fighting to end, the murshid had retorted , then Zeba may never marry. History has taught us that the fighting won’t stop until the last drop of Afghan blood has been spilled.
    Kamal and Zeba were married in 1996 in a part of the country uncontrolled, as of yet, by the Taliban. It was an austere ceremony and celebration, marked by the rhythm of a dhol drum and the chiming of the tambourine. The newlyweds knew nothing about each other. Zeba shook her head to think of that first year, living in the family compound with her new husband, wishing desperately to return to her home where her mother lived with Rafi and his bride of one year, a woman Zeba resented for stealing her brother’s attentions.
    Kamal, when they first married, did what he could to put her at ease. When he saw her tense and shy away, he found ways to endearhimself to her. He told jokes. He ate what she cooked and asked for a second plate. He spoke to her about little things and big things and even brought her a gift here and there. A bag of sweets, a pair of shoes. Zeba felt herself relax with the attentions of her new husband. When Kamal was at his best, Zeba felt like she was living out the romantic songs played on the radio. In truth, the last time she’d been so content had been before her father had walked into the horizon and disappeared forever.
    Zeba’s thoughts drifted to a time long ago when her husband’s brother had purchased a television and a DVD player. They’d bragged about it for a month before the women in the