Part 4 (1/2)

”He had been working in our family's grocery shop since he finished his army service a few years ago. When the front line of the war moved to Jabul Saraj, he took his wife and little children to the Salang mountain pa.s.s to wait out the fighting. They walked for three hours to reach the mountains and slept outside that night with many other families. The next day people tried to tell him it was safe to go home, but my brother knew better-the fighting had just started, it wasn't even close to ending. So he fled with his family through Khinjan and Poli Khumri to Mazar. They stayed there with some of our relatives for a few months, but finding work was very hard, and Mahmood has a big family to support. Finally he decided to come here to try to earn a living. There's only one way into Kabul now because of all the fighting, you know, and the trip from Mazar took him three full days. Anyway, I helped him open his own tailoring shop just down the street. He was worried at first because he didn't know anything about women's clothing, but I told him that he knew plenty about sales from running our parents' store and that that was much more important. We can rely on seamstresses from the neighborhood for our merchandise.”

When Ali finished his story, Kamila a.s.sured him that she and her sisters would be happy to help Mahmood fill his store with inventory whenever he needed it.

”Well then, let's see what kind of work you are doing,” he said.

Kamila swiftly unfolded her sample and spread it out on the display case. Ali inspected the dress closely, flipping it front and back and examining the hand-st.i.tched hems. ”It's very nice work,” he said. ”I'll take six dresses and, if you can make them, four pantsuits.

”But see here,” he continued, still studying the garment. ”Can you change this detail along the waist of the dress?” Kamila quickly agreed, and committed the details of the waistline to memory-she didn't want to waste time and, besides, drawing was illegal now. Ali then walked around the counter and moved toward the front window looking out over the street. He pointed to a lovely white wedding dress that was hanging there.

”Roya, do you think you and your sisters could make these?” he asked. ”They're a bit more complicated and will probably take a little longer, but that is no problem.”

Kamila didn't have to think about it; she immediately said, ”Of course.” Laila's impetuousness had become infectious, she realized, smiling. Ali took one of the long-sleeved beaded bridal gowns down from its display and handed it to Kamila to use as a model. ”I'll take three of these, and we can see how it goes from there.”

Kamila thanked Ali for his business.

”This means a lot to my family,” she said. ”We won't let you down.”

”Thank you, sister,” said Ali. ”May G.o.d keep you and your family safe.”

With that, Kamila and Rahim left the store for the street and headed home once more. By now they were perilously close to the noontime call to prayer, but Kamila was thrilled about having a new customer for her slowly expanding business. This is how it starts, Kamila thought. Now we just have to keep it growing. And we have to make sure nothing goes wrong.

Walking home, Kamila thought about whether they would need help, in the form of more seamstresses, to complete the orders for Mehrab and Ali. Right now they were getting by, but that was hardly enough; with the new orders coming in, they needed a better, more streamlined process. Most of all, they needed more hands. She would speak with her sisters about it tonight. In the meantime, she had the wedding dresses to think about.

After dinner the sisters settled into the living room to begin the evening's sewing. Kamila lit the hurricane lamps so they could see what they were doing. Just for a second she indulged a thought about how much easier electricity would have made their work. What a luxury it would be to flip a switch and have the room light up and the sewing machines begin humming!

”So I think we need to make a few changes,” Kamila said to the girls. ”We have more orders now, and we need help. Do you guys have any ideas?”

Saaman, Laila, and even their youngest sister, Nasrin, chimed in at once, each trying to speak over the other. Yes, they surely did have ideas!

”Okay, okay,” Kamila said, laughing at the cacophony of voices that filled their makes.h.i.+ft works.p.a.ce. ”One at a time!”

”What if we divide up the cutting and beading-make it something like an a.s.sembly line, so that one person is responsible for each,” Saaman said. ”Whoever is best at cutting can do it for all of us. That would help the dresses look a little more professional, too.”

Nasrin nodded. ”I agree. I also think we should clear out this room to make more s.p.a.ce to sew. Mother isn't here in her usual place, and Father doesn't need his seat in front of the radio anymore. We might as well turn this into a real workshop. When they return, we can put things back just as they were. Also, I think Malika would like to have a bigger place to work, and Rahim won't mind. So really, there's nothing to stop us from using the s.p.a.ce however we like.”

”Nasrin, you are going to have us turn the entire house into a little factory!” Kamila said, breaking out into a giggle. ”Our own parents wouldn't recognize their own home!”

Laila chimed in to support her little sister.

”Nasrin is right. It's a pain to have to put away our work every evening. It would be much easier if we could keep everything out. I think it will save us some time, too!”

A sense of purpose drove the discussion, and Kamila saw clearly that the business had become the main focus of their days. Together they had found a way to be productive in spite of their confinement. And with so much work in front of them, they almost forgot about all the problems of the world outside.

”There's one other thing I want to mention, since we're talking about the business,” Kamila told her sisters. ”Both Mehrab and Ali said other women had come to them with dresses to sell. We really need to make sure our work is as creative, beautiful, and professional as possible. And if we commit to a deadline, we have to deliver on time, no matter how large the order is. We want them to know us as reliable girls who make the dresses that their customers want to buy. Razia is coming over later; let's ask her for ideas about other girls in Khair Khana who might be able to come over and sew with us. And we'll definitely need some help from Malika on those wedding dresses.”

Since her return to Khair Khana, Malika's business had also begun to prosper-at least by the standards of the current economy, in which mere survival const.i.tuted success. It had begun with women who came to see her from her old neighborhood of Karteh Parwan. Then women in Khair Khana began to hear from friends and neighbors that there was a master tailor living among them who could meet some of their fancier clothing needs. Most of Malika's clients were slightly older women who had lived through so many of Kabul's changes these past thirty years, from the relative freedom of the 1970s and 1980s through the stricter Mujahideen dress code of the last five years and now this, the time of the chadri. They knew they must stay within the limits of what was permitted by the Taliban but refused to completely shed their own sense of style. It was a delicate balance that Malika had instinctively understood and come to master.

By now, a few new customers were stopping by each week to place orders for her elegant dresses and pantsuits. Malika's designs retained the distinctly Afghan broad sleeves and legs and baggy fit, but also reflected her appreciation for the French-style cuts that had been so popular in Kabul in the 1970s and 1980s. Before the Taliban, Malika had occasionally shopped the used clothing stalls at her bazaar in Karteh Parwan for the Western-style dresses or skirt suits seen in the capital during the royal family's reform era and, later, the period of Dr. Najibullah's rule. She would take the garments home and disa.s.semble them so she could see and learn how the seams fit together and which fabrics worked best for the different styles she was trying to achieve.

Women ordered Malika's more elaborate party dresses for wedding celebrations and Eid, the holiday marking the end of the holy month of Ramadan. But with the fighting still going on and the economy in a tailspin, weddings, which had always been ornate and expensive affairs in Afghanistan, seemed to be happening far less often. To begin with, many men had gone to fight on the front lines. And others had left Afghanistan to find work elsewhere, shrinking the pool of potential grooms. Because so many families had fled to Pakistan or Iran, there were fewer aunts, uncles, and cousins to invite. Those who remained in Kabul could hardly afford the days-long celebrations that in good times could easily cost as much as ten thousand dollars-an astronomical sum that forced many grooms into lifelong debt-and sometimes much more than that. Everyone knew that any sort of social gathering could bring trouble, and stories spread of Taliban soldiers bursting into people's living rooms to break up wedding parties on suspicion that guests might be dancing or playing music, including the dhol dhol, the Afghan two-sided drum, in violation of the new rules. The worst of these incidents ended with the Taliban hauling male guests-and sometimes even the groom-off to prison, where they would remain for a few days until family members could either plead or pay their way out.

All of this meant that those weddings that did occur were somber and far shorter events with a ceremony at home followed by a simple dinner of chicken and pilau. So Malika adapted her style to suit the times. None of her dresses were too fitted or too Western; arms and necks were fully covered and gowns reached well past the floor so no shoes would ever show. Women did, of course, still want to be beautiful for their wedding day, so Malika ensured that the beading and the embroidery were elaborate enough for her brides to feel supremely regal while remaining within the government-mandated sartorial boundaries.

With each week, Malika's queue of orders grew longer. Customers now waited for as long as two weeks for their garments. This rising demand compelled the working mother to stretch her days even longer, for she, like Kamila, was determined to make sure her clients kept coming back. She rose earlier each morning and, after was.h.i.+ng and saying her prayers, rushed to get her oldest son, Saeed, ready for school before making sure that four-year-old Hossein was fed and ready for the day. Then she would carry the twins' wooden crib out into the living room and set it up next to her works.p.a.ce. The infants slept most of the morning as she sewed, and she left her work only to tend to them when they awoke hungry or in need of a new diaper. Throughout the day Kamila and the other girls would take a break from their own dressmaking to visit their little nieces. They carried them around the living room and sang lullabies and old Afghan ballads until the babies were ready to eat and return to sleep once more. Then everyone went back to work.

At Kamila's request Malika led an improvised version of a sewing ”master cla.s.s” for the girls. First she walked them through the basics of making a wedding dress, and then showed them the difference between Mehrab's dress and Ali's. Next came the pantsuits.

”Be creative,” Malika urged the girls. ”This is how your dresses will stand out from the others that are in the stores. Don't be afraid to try new ideas; if they don't work, they won't sell!”

The young women learned quickly, picking up new sewing techniques before the afternoon was over. Watching the girls hone their skills, and seeing the enthusiasm with which they embraced Malika's teaching and advice, Kamila felt increasingly certain of their little venture's business potential.

As the afternoon sank into evening, they heard a knock at the door. Kamila thought it must be Razia, but she usually let herself in. The girls said nothing to each other, but their forced calm spoke volumes: surprises were unwelcome and fear was now the normal reaction to any unexpected visitor.

Kamila called to Rahim to open the gate. After just a moment, she saw with relief her aunt Huma hurrying through the doorway with her fifteen-year-old daughter, Farah, at her side. Once inside, the women pulled back their chadri. A waterfall of blue fabric cascaded down their backs and onto the floor.

Laila was the first to the door, and she threw her arms around her aunt. Huma in turn kissed each of the girls, one by one. It was the closest to a maternal embrace they had had in ages.

”I'm so glad to see you; we've been thinking about you but didn't know whether you were still here in Kabul,” Kamila said. ”Come sit and have something to eat.”

After asking about their parents and making sure the girls were doing well, Huma came to the point of her visit. No calls were purely social anymore.

”Is Malika Jan here?” she asked.

The older girl had left her work for just a moment to check on Saeed, and when she returned she greeted her aunt with a warm embrace.

”h.e.l.lo, Auntie. Is everything okay?”

”Well, that's why we've come, Malika Jan,” Huma replied. ”We are all healthy and well, but the situation here is getting very dangerous, as you know. We can't stay in Kabul any longer. I've decided to take the girls to Pakistan. We leave tomorrow.” She paused for a moment. ”We want you to come with us.”

All the Sidiqi sisters stood huddled around their aunt, holding their collective breath. They knew where this conversation was headed. It was the same discussion they had had with their parents months earlier, when Mr. Sidiqi had decided that it was safer for the girls to remain in Kabul rather than risk the journey to Pakistan or Iran.

”Of course if your sisters are permitted to come, we want them to join us, but I know your father thinks it safest for them to remain here together,” the older woman said. ”I would not challenge his wishes, of course.”

”Thank you, Auntie. You know we appreciate your thinking of us and that we're very grateful for your kindness,” said Malika. All the while she was staring at Huma's hands; it was obvious to everyone that she didn't dare to meet her aunt's eyes, lest she unleash tears from her own. ”I will talk with Farzan, but honestly I don't think he will change his mind. We are planning to stay here; it's just too difficult and expensive to travel with so many small children, and I can't think about leaving the girls behind.” She nodded toward her sisters. ”Allah will protect us; please don't worry.”

Huma had come prepared for this argument, and she began to list all the reasons why Malika's family and the Sidiqi girls should leave with them: First, no one was left in the city and the capital's problems would only get worse. There were no jobs for any of them and there was no reason she could think of to believe this would change anytime soon. It was simply not safe to stay, she insisted. ”There is no future here for you girls.” Finally, Huma added that she and her daughters would be safer if Malika's family joined them on the journey to Pakistan. ”It's better for everyone if we leave together, as a family, and there's no time to waste.”

Malika again promised that she would speak with her husband, but her quiet voice now betrayed months of worry and exhaustion. All the girls felt for their aunt, a middle-aged woman who had been left on her own in the city with two teenage daughters to care for, but they had no choice but to turn down her plea for help.

With nothing more to be said and nightfall approaching, the women once again exchanged hugs and kisses, this time in sadness rather than joy. Malika embraced her aunt a moment longer than usual.

”I will be thinking of all of you,” she said, ”and I know G.o.d will protect you and your girls.” Later that night, alone with her thoughts, Kamila lay in bed replaying the evening's events. ”We will be on our own here for a while,” she told herself, ”and we had better find a way to make the best of it, just as we always have.” She resolved to stay focused on her siblings and her business instead of dwelling on all that she couldn't change, like the separation of her family, the education she was missing out on, and the fate of her cousins who were about to embark on the perilous journey to Pakistan.

The weeks pa.s.sed in a blur of beaded dresses and pantsuits. Days started with prayers and breakfast and ended fourteen hours later with the girls falling into bed, exhausted but already planning for the next morning's sewing. Kamila, meanwhile, was getting better at winning new business, with the help of her mahram mahram Rahim. Of all of her siblings, Rahim had become the one Kamila now relied on the most. He was her faithful guard and gofer, and a trusted colleague in her small business. He may have been a teenager, but he never complained when his sisters asked him to go out for whatever sewing supplies they needed, or to run to the market for rice or sugar. She had no idea how they would have gotten by without his energy and kindness. Rahim. Of all of her siblings, Rahim had become the one Kamila now relied on the most. He was her faithful guard and gofer, and a trusted colleague in her small business. He may have been a teenager, but he never complained when his sisters asked him to go out for whatever sewing supplies they needed, or to run to the market for rice or sugar. She had no idea how they would have gotten by without his energy and kindness.

Kamila and Rahim went out more and more often these days. Refusing her sisters' pleas to be satisfied with the marginal victories of slightly larger orders, Kamila pressed ahead with expanding their customer base and growing their venture. Following Ali's introduction, she was now taking orders for Ali's brother, Mahmood. That brought their customers to three. Kamila told the girls that she and Rahim would try to find introductions to more tailors they knew they could trust, once she was certain they could successfully juggle all the work they had now.