wned； in fact； a considerable collection of classical ghazal tapes by Afghan and Hindi singers……he believed the performing of it best left to those with lesser reputations。 That she never sing in public had been one of the general s conditions when they had married。 Soraya told me that her mother had wanted to sing at our wedding； only one song； but the general gave her one of his looks and the matter was buried。 Khala Jamila played the lotto once a week and watched Johnny Carson every night。 She spent her days in the garden； tending to her roses； geraniums； potato vines； and orchids。
When I married Soraya； the flowers and Johnny Carson took a backseat。 I was the new delight in Khala Jamila s life。 Unlike the general s guarded and diplomatic manners……he didn t correct me when I continued to call him General Sahib ……Khala Jamila made no secret of how much she adored me。 For one thing； I listened to her impressive list of maladies； something the general had long turned a deaf ear to。 Soraya told me that； ever since her mother s stroke； every flutter in her chest was a heart attack； every aching joint the onset of rheumatoid arthritis； and every twitch of the eye another stroke。 I remember the first time Khala Jamila mentioned a lump in her neck to me。 I ll skip school tomorrow and take you to the doctor； I said； to which the general smiled and said； Then you might as well turn in your books for good； bachem。 Your khala s medical charts are like the works of Rumi： They e in volumes。
But it wasn t just that she d found an audience for her monologues of illness。 I firmly believed that if I had picked up a rifle and gone on a murdering rampage； I would have still had the benefit of her unblinking love。 Because I had rid her heart of its gravest malady。 I had relieved her of the greatest fear of every Afghan mother： that no honorable khastegar would ask for her daughter s hand。 That her daughter would age alone； husbandless； childless。 Every woman needed a husband。 Even if he did silence the song in her。
And； from Soraya； I learned the details of what had happened in Virginia。
We were at a wedding。 Soraya s uncle； Sharif； the one who worked for the INS； was marrying his son to an Afghan girl from Newark。 The wedding was at the same hall where； six months prior； Soraya and I had had our awroussi。 We were standing in a crowd of guests； watching the bride accept rings from the groom s family； when we overheard two middle…aged women talking； their backs to us。
What a lovely bride； one of them said； Just look at her。 So maghbool； like the moon。
Yes； the other said。 And pure too。 Virtuous。 No boyfriends。
I know。 I tell you that boy did well not to marry his cousin。
Soraya broke down on the way home。 I pulled the Ford off to the curb； parked under a streetlight on Fremont Boulevard。
It s all right； I said； pushing back her hair。 Who cares？
It s so fucking unfair； she barked。
Just forget it。
Their sons go out to nightclubs looking for meat and get their girlfriends pregnant； they have kids out of wedlock and no one says a goddamn thing。 Oh； they re just men having fun！ I make one mistake and suddenly everyone is talking nang and namoos； and I have to have my face rubbed in it for the rest of my life。
I wiped a tear from her jawline； just above her birthmark； with the pad of my thumb。
I didn t tell you； Soraya said； dabbing at her eyes； but my father showed up with a gun that night。 He told。。。 him。。。 that he had two bullets in the chamber； one for him and one for himself if I didn t e home。 I was screaming； calling my father all kinds of names； saying he couldn t keep me locked up forever； that I wished he were dead。 Fresh tears squeezed out between her lids。 I actually said that to him； that I wished he were dead。
When he brought me home； my mother threw her arms around me and she was crying too。 She was saying things but I couldn t understand any of it because she was slurring her words so badly。 So my father took me up to my bedroom and sat me in front of the dresser mirror。 He handed me a pair of scissors and calmly told me to cut off all my hair。 He watched while I did it。
I didn t step out of the house for weeks。 And when I did； I heard whispers or imagined them everywhere I went。 That was four years ago and three thousand miles away and I m still hearing them。
Fuck em； I said。
She made a sound that was half sob； half laugh。 When I told you about this on the phone the night of khastegari； I was sure you d change your mind。
No chance of that； Soraya。
She smiled and took my hand。 I m so lucky to have found you。 You re so different from every Afghan guy I ve met。
Let s never talk about this again； okay？
Okay。
I kissed her cheek and pulled away from the curb。 As I drove； I wondered why I was different。 Maybe it was because I had been raised by men； I hadn t grown up around women and had never been exposed firsthand to the double standard with which Afghan society sometimes treated them。 Maybe it was because Baba had been such an unusual Afghan father； a liberal who had lived by his own rules； a maverick who had disregarded or embraced societal customs as he had seen fit。
But I think a big part of the reason I didn t care about Soraya s past was that I had one of my own。 I knew all about regret。
SHORTLY AFTER BABA S DEATH； Soraya and I moved into a one…bedroom apartment in Fremont； just a few blocks away from the general and Khala Jamila s house。 Soraya s parents bought us a brown leather couch and a set of Mikasa dishes as
housewarming presents。 The general gave me an additional present； a brand new IBM typewriter。 In