Page 63 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

for gossiping like a sewing circle of old women and reminded them that without

people like Mr. Wahdati the likes of us would be back in our villages collecting
cow dung. Where is your loyalty, your respect? I demanded.
A brief moment of quiet passed during which I thought I had made an
impression on the dullards and then laughter broke out. Zahid said I was an ass-
licker, and perhaps the soon-to-be mistress of the house would ink a poem and
call it “Ode to Nabi, the Licker of Many Asses.” I stomped indignantly out of the
shack to an uproar of cackles.
But I did not stray too far. Their gossip, by turns, revolted and fascinated me.
And despite my show of righteousness, for all my talk of propriety and
discretion, I stayed within earshot. I did not want to miss a single lurid detail.

The engagement lasted only days and culminated not in a big ceremony with
live singers and dancers and merriment all around but with a brief visit by a
mullah, a witness, and the scribbling of two signatures across a sheet of paper.
And with that, less than two weeks after I had laid eyes on her for the first time,
Mrs. Wahdati moved into the house.

Allow me a brief pause here, Mr. Markos, to say that I will from here
on refer to Mr. Wahdati’s wife as Nila. Needless to say, this is a liberty I was not
allowed back then and one I would not have accepted even if it had been offered
to me. I referred to her always as Bibi Sahib, with the deference expected of me.
But for the purposes of this letter, I will dispense with etiquette and refer to her
the way I always thought of her.
Now, I knew from the start that the marriage was an unhappy one. Rarely did
I see a tender look pass between the couple or hear an affectionate word uttered.
They were two people occupying the same house whose paths rarely seemed to

intersect at all.
In the mornings, I served Mr. Wahdati his customary breakfast—a piece of
toasted naan, half a cup of walnuts, green tea with a sprinkle of cardamom and
no sugar, and a single boiled egg. He liked the yolk to run just so when he
punctured the egg, and my initial failures to master this particular consistency
had proved a source of considerable anxiety on my part. While I accompanied
Mr. Wahdati on his daily morning walk, Nila slept in, often until noon or even
later. By the time she rose, I was all but ready to serve Mr. Wahdati his lunch.

All morning, as I tended to my chores, I ached for the moment when Nila