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“My girls, let me tell you a little more about Bibi Shekiba. As much as I hate to think it, her story is your story.” She sighed and shook her head. “I suppose we all carry the story of our ancestors in us. Where did we leave off?”
“The human spirit, you know what they say about the human spirit? It is harder than a rock and more delicate than a flower petal.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it was your naseeb all along that you should have the bread and tea. Maybe your naseeb is there but waiting for you to make it happen.”
Every Friday, Abdul Khaliq’s friends and family members gathered at our compound for a khatm. Each person read one of the thirty parts of the Qur’an. Prayers were said at the completion, or khatm, of the holy book. I could hear them from down the hall and prayed along with them, hoping it did Jahangir some good. It did me none.
Jahangir. His name was a dagger. His name was a salve.
It wasn’t until weeks later that this conversation would bring me solace. For now, I stored her words, saving them for when my heart had healed enough to believe that my son had felt my embrace.
This life is difficult. We lose fathers, brothers, mothers, songbirds and pieces of ourselves. Whips strike the innocent, honors go to the guilty, and there is too much loneliness. I would be a fool to pray for my children to escape all of that. Ask for too much and it might actually turn out worse. But I can pray for small things, like fertile fields, a mother’s love, a child’s smile—a life that’s less bitter than sweet.
