Asphyxiation

This is a story I wrote in college. I had titled it “Asphyxiation” but I’m not sure if that’s the best title for it. It’s about Taliban controlled Afghanistan.

In the cold month of January, where the snow is still deep and the trees are as bare as the Siberian steppes, Jalalabad looked like a city of ghosts. The streets were deserted except for an occasional shout or the distant sound of a machine gun firing. I, a human rights lawyer stripped of my profession from the regime, trying to salvage what was left of women in Afghanistan, walked briskly, trying to beat the merciless cold to Aminah Malik’s house, a widow who was repeatedly raped and tortured by the Taliban militia. I was accompanied by my good friend, Asif, who had forged marriage certificates in his inner coat pockets. They said that he was my lawfully wedded husband and we had been risking our lives like this for over two months now. He was forty-five, unwed, a closet homosexual and brilliant but suppressed scientist forced to work as an interpreter, and happy to do anything that would go against the regime. Asif accompanied me to Aminah’s house everyday and dropped me off. He would arrive promptly at five-thirty in the evening to perform the due-diligence.

Aminah's residence was a mud hut just off the main road along with several others surrounding hers. Her husband, Umer Abdul Malik, had been dragged out from his bed in the middle of the night and was beaten to death by the local Taliban officials, who thrust forged documents in Aminah’s face, claiming that he was an informer to the ‘infidels’.

Umer Abdul was a strapping and handsome young man of twenty and six. Despite being born in an impoverished house, he had ambitions, which he put to practice when he received a scholarship to study medicine in Jalalabad’s medical school. He had wooed Aminah since the age of eighteen, and there was no doubt as to why this young and promising man was completely taken by her. She was not conventionally beautiful, but had an air about herself, which had caused several problems between the male population in her district. Aminah had thick and straight hair as black as the night, with almond-shaped eyes to match, which she accentuated with kohl. Her complexion was fair, with a healthy pink glow on the cheeks. Her nose was a perfect ski-slope, and slightly upturned at the end to give her a proud look and she had pouted pink lips.

To feed his family, Umer eked out a meager living as a sweeper during the evenings in the hospital, and on weekends he sold dry fruits at the market. His only concerns were his new bride and his pitiful paycheck, which he received at the end of every month. When he went to collect his paycheck on the evening of that fateful day, the administration informed him that it was not ready and officials will visit in the evening to deliver it. They came, but bearing rifles and knives instead. Then it was Aminah’s turn. Terrified neighbors saw the officials drag her by the hair into the truck. The door closed with a bang and the truck disappeared into the blackness of the night. Umer’s body, with blood still flowing out of his fresh wounds lay on the ground, lifeless. Aminah returned three days later, her clothes ripped in numerous places, open wounds with caked blood and a limp that would last her a lifetime. Her once expressive eyes reflected nothing, not even sorrow. She would just sit by the window picking at the hems of her dress staring vacantly at the place where her husband’s corpse had once lain.

I knocked surreptitiously on the door of Aminah Malik’s mud hut, only to find that it was unlatched. It had wooden walls with a mud roof. There was a tiny room which consisted of a living room and bedroom, and then there was an extension, which was the kitchen. The people living in that tiny district used communal bathrooms, or bathroom rather. It was just one tiny cubicle with a hole in the ground surrounded by all sorts of life forms from scorpions to cockroaches. As for bathing, there was a tap attached to a rotting tank and spouted water only when it felt like. Men and women bathed from it and cats urinated in it. The only thing that showed some sign of life was a pot of geraniums on the windowsill next to Aminah. But those too were deteriorating.

The door swung open and I saw Aminah rooted to that same spot by the windowsill, except this time, she was cracking her knuckles. One step at a time. I entered and greeted her as usual with a ‘salaam aleikum’. No reply. “Hal-e shoma khub e?” I asked. It meant “How are you?” in Farsi, the main language spoken in Taliban controlled Afghanistan. Those that spoke English were looked upon with suspicion. Still no reply. I continued in Farsi, “Aminah, I don’t care if you do not wish to talk to me, but I am here to talk to you and listen to you. I also want you to know that if one day you decide to change your mind about what you are doing right now, I am there to help you.

The day passed without any major hiccups, apart from Aminah’s childish tantrums and some middle-aged birds stopping by for the occasional snippet of gossip. Four-thirty. I looked out the window and smiled. Two young boys cycled past the house whistling at the neighborhood at exactly this time. Asif will be due in an hour.

I heard a cheerful “Salaam-aleikum!” It was Khawlah Butt. “Aleikum-salaam, Khawlahjaan,” I replied with equal cheerfulness. Inwardly I realized that I myself could use a dose of Khawlah’s daily cheer.

Khawlah Butt, Aminah’s aunt and confidant came everyday to bathe her and clean her house as well as to cook her meals. She was a grossly overweight woman in her fifties, who waddled about constantly from house to house trying to catch snippets of the latest gossip, which she shared over a cup of tea with her long time friend and neighbor Nadia Rustom. She had three moles on her face, all strategically placed on the bridge of her nose, on her upper lip and below her ear. She was so obese that buying burqas from a shop was impossible, and the village tailor had the unpleasant task of stitching them for her. After every fifteen minutes of walking and much huffing and puffing, she had to sit in the corner of the street for a brief rest while her impatient fifteen year old younger son looked down at her disapprovingly. She had no choice but to take him along because women were not allowed to be on the street without a male escort.

Today I had to discuss something important with Khawlah. I followed her into the tiny kitchen located north of the door. Despite the problem with proximity and the knowledge that Aminah was still within the earshot, I continued to speak while Khawlah boiled the tea.

“I think you should stop all this. If you continue doing her work for her, she will never recover. Times are hard right now and it is difficult to get a female psychiatrist. You know that the Taliban has prevented women from working, so it is up to us to help her.”

“You don’t know her, she’ll stay like this until she starves to death.”

“Try to involve her in what you are doing. She has to know that you are not always going to be there for her. If you get her involved, perhaps she will recover faster. I mean, how long can she sit there surrounded by filth with hunger gnawing at her gut?”

“Baby you don’t understand – “

“You’re right. I don’t. Nobody does. Not even you, but as one caregiver to another I implore you to stop this at least for a while.”

Upon my completion of this sentence, Khawlah accidentally knocked over the milk and it fell to the floor creating loud splash. Both of us jumped. Food was being rationed and milk was scarce. Now there would be no milk until next week when the ration cards would be distributed. I took the tea outside and set it in front of Aminah while Khawlah cleaned up the mess in the kitchen.

Five-thirty. No sign of Asif. Maybe he was late.

Usually Khawlah would feed Aminah the tea with a spoon, firmly holding her jaw open. Today, Aminah will have to feed herself or starve. I heard Khawlah saying a prayer to Allah from the kitchen and it made me doubt religion for the millionth time after arriving in this godforsaken place that whether God really existed? How is God supposed to help us if we cannot help ourselves or those around us who need our help? With these thoughts in mind, I stared back at Aminah’s vacant face and after a long pause broke the silence with, “Drink up.” She turned her face away – the first real reaction I had seen in weeks.

Six o clock. Still no Asif. Curfew would be starting soon and I had to get home.

“If you don’t drink it then it will go to waste,” I continued. She turned the other way, a look of defiance etched across her face. ‘Another step,’ I said to myself inwardly feeling triumphant. I got up and went into the kitchen where I bade goodbye to Khawlah who was still cleaning the milk.

“The floor is going to be sticky and the water in the well has dried up,” she said with a sigh. I promised her that I shall bring her water from my rations.

“Oh, and Khawlahjaan?”

“Yes baby?” It was funny how she called me ‘baby’.

“Those flowers are almost dying. They need to be watered,” I said pointing to the geraniums resting on the windowsill next to Aminah, and then I walked out, carefully latching the door behind me.

I rushed along the dark alleyways back to my quarters. I had flouted the Taliban’s biggest rule – I had left the quarters without a male escort and had I been found out, they would have flogged me to death. As I reached closer, I broke into a steady jog and did not stop until I had finally reached inside and slammed the door shut leaning against it, my heart beating hard and my chest heaving from breathlessness.

A light switched on behind me and I spun around, to find not Asif, but three bearded and turbaned men brandishing spears and bats. One of them barked in Farsi, “We have Asif. We know you are lying. It’s over.”