FIVE
As the sun sunk behind the western mountain peaks, a chilly wind began to blow across the flat rooftop where Masih was sitting. Long shadows grew longer and hovered over the mountain slopes.
Ready for ablution, Sekandar squatted in front of the exposed rose stems. Masih shouted to get his attention, “Baba, when are they coming back?”
“Any minute now. Be patient,” he said, cupping his hands together for Sori to tilt the plastic jug and pour water on them. The glacial water had melted off the Hindu Kush and purified itself traveling underground. When constructing his house, Sekandar had dug the deepest well in the village in a corner of his front yard. Its depth and proximity to the river just across the street, helped maintain a sizeable reservoir of water. Even if the river dried up in hot summers, Deh Darya never faced a shortage of drinking water. The well could quench the thirst of the entire village.
Sekandar never performed ablution with warm water, not even in winters. “Hot water is for bachaa-e shir o parata, milk and honey boys,” he would say. Sori made every effort to pour the exact amount of water that he wanted, just enough—no more, no less.
As Sori tipped the pitcher, Masih could not help but notice the glitter of the chiseled glass bangles sliding on her milky-white forearms. Her headscarf rested on her shoulders, exposing a cascade of charcoal-black hair to a playful gust of wind. Masih did not resist the temptation. In fact, he took advantage of the opportunity and enjoyed watching her from the safety of the secluded rooftop. However, within a few seconds, feelings of shame and regret shot through his mind. True, Sori was stunning, and it would not have been easy for any fourteen-year-old boy to ignore her. Still, that did not give him the right to stare at her in that manner.
As guilt weighed heavy on his mind, he dropped his eyes to the edge of the rooftop. He felt embarrassed of committing a be-ghairati, a dishonorable act. After all, he had been friends with Sori’s brothers for as long as he could remember. Plus, he spent the first two years of his life living with Sori in the same house. So what if he couldn’t recall any memories of her from that time? So what if he was just an infant back then? It didn’t change the fact that, for however short a period, they were raised together as brother and sister in the same household. As far as she was concerned, they were siblings, and everyone else thought so too.
Maybe this time he made a mistake—a disgraceful one. It just was not right to have inappropriate feelings for his best friends’ sister, and it should not occur ever again. When Sori’s brothers treated Masih’s mother as a sister, it would not be fair for him to think of their sister as anything but a sister. A burst of heat rushed through his body. He released his sweaty palms from the edge of the rooftop and pulled back. Then he dusted off his knees, hoping to avoid his mother’s criticism for ruining his only pair of jeans that was almost an inch short around his ankles.
Masih walked toward the pigeon coop and sat next to its fenced door, only a foot higher than his waistline. He pulled his knees close to his chest and gazed into the dark chamber. On the opposite side, a golden ray of sunlight shimmered through the fenced window that opened toward Baba’s garden behind the house. Cool and depressing shadows dominated inside the structure that was neither a cage, nor a room. Facing each other, the pigeons sat on two wooden rods, which hung from the ceiling with metal wires twisted around each end. As usual, the doves patiently waited for the brothers to arrive and let them out.
He could identify a few of the pairs as Aziz and Jawad had taught him—Caasa-dum, Siah-patain, Sabz-shirazi, and Malaqi. As he looked closer, there drifted a new pair toward the end of the rod, right next to the small opening in the wall. While others fidgeted and muttered a “coo, coo,” the newcomers kept quiet and almost motionless, as if they were lost deep in thoughts. Masih had seen the likes of them flying around the shrine of Sakhi-jan in Kabul. Since Father’s disappearance, he and Mother would visit the shrine at least twice a month to pray for him and supplicate for his return.
A few minutes later, he stood up and headed for bala-khana, the upper room on the opposite corner of the rooftop. Until Aziz and Jawad’s arrival, he could sit there on a mattress, listen to the river surge, and watch the berry trees rock. But before entering the room, he shot a final glance at the wooden bridge across the river, and for the first time he saw armed mujahedin, fighters crossing it. Masih was pleasantly surprised.