Free The Secret Sky: A Novel of Forbidden Love in Afghanistan by Atia Abawi

My eyes well as I see her frail, bony body, so I bow my head and go to kiss her hands before she can see the tears. Pulling her hand away, she brings me up and squeezes me to her chest.
    “My boy, my sweet, sweet boy,” she says gently. She touches her damp hands to my cheeks before she kisses them, followed by my eyelids, then my forehead. I don’t mind.
    “It’s good to see you, my sweet mother,” I say, and I mean it. I didn’t realize how much I missed her until this very moment.
    “Enough, enough. Let the boy go.” My great-uncle’s voice surprises us from behind. Jaan Baba is the only male elder in our house right now, and he has made his way out to the courtyard to greet me. As soon as the kids see him, they scatter. I guess he still has his charm with the children. He is leaning his frail body on a walking stick and has already put his arm and hand out for me to kiss. I quickly run and bring my lips to his fingers. His hand is shakier than a generator on full blast.
    “
Salaam aleykum,
my son; your arrival brings us joy,” he says, pulling his hand away. “The men are out but will be back before the sun sets. For now, come sit and tell me everything about your new life.” He shoos my Gul Bibi away as he turns to walk inside and barks at one of the girls, “Jamila! Bring us some tea!”
    Waiting for the sun to set and the men to arrive feels like waiting for clay to dry. I tell Jaan Baba nearly a thousand times about the school and how they are thinking of making me into one of the teachers. His sleeping bouts and the rumbles of his snoring keep interrupting my stories. Every time he wakes, I find myself repeating everything over again, which is beginning to annoy and frustrate me, but I pretend like it’s fine, even adding some forced smiles and laughs. I know we have to respect our elders, but how about they show some respect in return for our patience in sitting with them! If only Jaan Baba and the rest of them knew what their precious nephew Sami has been doing all day, then they would respect me even more.
    While we wait for the men to get home, some of the kids run in and out of the room peeking at me. Some remember me from when I lived here; others don’t because they were too small when I left. At first it’s cute when they pop their tiny heads in, but after a few hours, they are annoying me as well. “
Za larsa!
” I finally yell at them to get out of the room. Their eyes pop with fear as they run out.
    When the men arrive, I can hear my uncle Ismail being greeted by the women. I get up and head out to the courtyard, and I see my uncle and my cousin the infidel lagging behind him. Sinner! He’s so smug, trying to act sweet as he picks up the little kids, who are giggling like goats. Even his lovely sister Nur kisses him after she’s greeted her father. Sami doesn’t deserve her respect and admiration. He lies to everyone and acts as though he is a man of virtue. I don’t understand why he’s so loved. He’s a pathetic fool and a dropout. A failure! He may be my uncle’s oldest son, but I’ve done more to make them proud. I’m the one who stayed in the
madrassa,
who learned to recite the Quran. I’m the one they should be the proudest of. Not that little ant.
    “Ah! My son! So good to see you!” Ismail Aaka finally directs his attention to me. As we hug, I see Sami smiling at me. I play along in this charade and smile back.
    “
Salaam aleykum,
Rashid,” Sami says coming in for an embrace. “I’ve missed my uncle’s son. Have you been well?” I’d almost think he sounded concerned if I didn’t know him better.
    “Very well, cousin,” I respond. “Life is good, learning all of God’s splendid instructions and hoping to share it with our loved ones.” I look at him, waiting for a reaction. We both know he has lost any standing when it comes to the glory of God’s teachings.
    “I’m glad you’re well,” he says, slapping my shoulder. “I hear the ladies made you a