“The streets were not safe after dawn.”
Your grandmother mumbled, looking outside the window. At the tender age of seven, you turned your face towards your mother with questioning eyes.
“Nothing dear; Bibijaan is worried for the neighbour’s daughter going to college alone,” Madar answered.
“But, everyone goes to college,” you said, “ Even Bushra’s sister !”
Madar bit her lips.
Patting your head, she beamed, “ So will Bushra and you, Inshallah !”
You knew that pat on the head. It ended conversations.
***
Bibijaan’s dreary words echo in Shazia’s ears as she runs, holding Bushra’s hand. She can see the pitch black give way to a dense grey. Still dark. But not dark enough..
As they navigate a sharp corner, Bushra trips and falls.
***
Bushra was your best friend. Together you had conjured many ‘make-believe” games. From owning a Michelin-starred restaurant to having the poshest aesthetic clinic in Kabul to driving the latest luxury car to simply chilling in fancy outfits in college.
By the time you were fifteen, the games evolved into dreams.
Dreams that seemed reachable. Plausible. Exciting.
You desired to be like the characters of the books you loved reading; Build a career. Fall in love. Make it big.
You toiled to top the grade every year, with Bushra coming in a close second.
***
“Go, Shazia!’ Bushra prods.“ My sprained ankle will slow you down.”
“No way,” Shazia answers, giving her a hand.
They tread cautiously, scouting their surroundings.
A mynah startles them with its harsh, scratchy call.
The sun would be rising soon.
***
You loved sunrises.
They brought possibilities.
The newspapers boasted of erudite women who had made it to the parliament.
Something unusual in your country.
There was a buzz that women could now run for president. You smiled, nursing a secret ambition.
You grew wings. Ambitions soared. New heights of glory beckoned.
Until the morning when you heard Madar murmur, “ The streets are not safe … again .”
Unlike Bibijaan, she wasn’t looking out the window. She was staring at the screen, her face greyish-white like the little ice lakes that appeared around your house in winters.
But it was August. Hot and dry.
“The streets were unsafe, but she didn’t care,” Madar kept muttering. “She never came back!”
“Who?” You inquired.
“ Apa. We buried my sister. And her wounds. And her blood-soaked clothes. And our wounds too!”
You listened, shocked.
“ They lynched her to death because she was carrying books.” She cried, pushing your schoolbag away. You resisted and screamed.
She held you close and whispered.
“ They are back !”
You felt her body shudder.
***
Shazia shivers. Partly because of the cold.Partly because she hears footsteps.
The dark alleys that lead to their homes are always tricky.
One can never be sure of someone waiting there.
***
Terror bared its ugly fangs at you.
Fear loomed large.
Not fear of death.
Fear of ruthless fangs tearing your ambitions apart.
You may not die. But would you be alive?
You witnessed unexpected raids at odd times by strangers.
All your books were stashed in your brother’s room.
You got trained in covering yourself up immaculately from head to toe.
One of the men of the family accompanied you wherever you went out.
‘School?’ you begged your family to reconsider.
“ Can’t lose you!” Madar wailed.
The Michelin stars faded; the aesthetics gave way to basics. Stuck at home, the only driving you did was driving everyone nuts.
Fancy outfits disappeared below stoic black and grey.
***
“Aah, but the dark robes hide us well at night,” Shazia humours herself.
Then she frowns.
A speck of peach in the sky threatens to blow their cover.
She spots someone waiting in the shadows. Her heart skips a beat. She clasps Bushra’s hand tightly.
***
Once, when you and Bushra had dared to go out unaccompanied, you were stopped by armed men. You didn’t look up, your eyes burning with anger. But Bushra did. A bruise on her face remained to tell the story.
On hot, lazy afternoons, you day-dreamed that desert winds would pick you up like a grain of sand. Take you around the world. And you could choose another place to settle in.
On freezing nights, you drifted through the pages of the novels
that you had hidden in a secret box. You longed to join the fiery female protagonists. Flee the stifled life.
Hosseini’s Laila gave you hope. Betty Mahmoody gave you courage. And Jo from Little Women was your all-time inspiration.
Hope opened windows.
In quiet ways.
Whispers. Messages.Invites.
Courage opened doors.
Voices of rebellion reached out to you.
A hushed rebellion after sunset.
A rebellion with a single lethal weapon.Books!
Inspiration led you.
Women risking their lives to teach you in a dingy underground room.
Women who had lived the same horror around twenty years ago.
Eager to give. To heal. To ascend
Every night, you embraced a room full of girls like you.
Eager to learn. To fly. To soar.
Your heart healed. So did Bushra’s bruise.
***
The shadowy figure approaches the girls.
The first rays of the sun reveal an anxious face.
“Madarjaan !” Shazia heaves a sigh of relief.
“The streets are not safe after dawn!” Madar warns.
“But the nights are lighting up our lives!” Shazia chuckles, winking at Bushra.
*****
Author’s note- The story is inspired by underground night schools run in rebellion to the Taliban regime, which banned girls’ education.
Glossary:-
Bibijaan- grandmother dear
Madar- mother
Inshallah- God willing
Madarjaan- mother dear
