Free The Dressmaker of Khair Khana by Gayle Tzemach Lemmon

know who might be listening. Or who might want to turn someone else in for their own reasons. And most of all, you can't ever be seen speaking with any men other than one of our brothers, particularly shopkeepers. You have to assume that the Taliban are always watching, that you are never invisible. You just have to be watchful every second you're outside, okay?”
    “Definitely,” Kamila said. “You're right. You know I wanted to bring one of our brothers with me today but they were both very busy. I promise I'll do everything you say and will be extremely careful from here on out.”
    Malika looked at her, unconvinced. She wasn't sure her strong-willed sister had ever stopped to think about the consequences once she set her mind on something.
    “Really, I promise you,” Kamila said, seeing her sister's hesitation. “I don't want to break the rules or cause problems for anyone; I just need to work for our family. And Malika, I am going mad with nothing to do. I have to be useful again.”
    Malika realized that it would be pointless to stand in her sister's way, no matter how worried she was. She could tell by Kamila's tone of absolute certainty that she had already decided to go forward with her plan anyway--with or without her help.
    “Well, then,” Malika said, putting down her tea and removing the snacks from the wooden table. She moved like a woman with no time to waste. “Let's begin.”
    Kamila followed her sister into her sewing area, which was just off the living room. Malika had carved out this small workspace a few years earlier, and it had become her own private refuge, a corner of quiet amid the noise and laughter of her two boys. Partially completed dresses and a dark pair of women's trousers hung here and there from chairs and table corners. Malika was in the middle of making a pantsuit for a neighbor, she explained.
    Three small machines stood at attention on the sewing table. Malika used one to hem clothing, particularly garments that were made from thick fabric. Another was for embroidery. But the device she turned to most often was her “zigzag,” a lightweight beige-colored machine that could make more than a dozen kinds of stitches and was powered by a black pedal that sat beneath it on the floor.
    Reaching for a swath of powder blue rayon fabric that was leaning against the wall, Malika began to explain to Kamila how to make a simple dress with beading.
    “First, you begin by cutting the fabric,” she said.
    As she continued, Malika grabbed a pair of fabric shears from a nearby shelf that was filled with sewing supplies--measuring tape, needles, dozens of spools of colored thread. A dusty shaft of afternoon sunlight streamed into the sitting room from the courtyard, glancing off the metal scissors. Malika carefully maneuvered a smooth, straight line against the material she was cutting.
    She picked up a plastic stencil in the shape of a flower from her worktable and held it against the top corner of the cut fabric. With a thin marker she outlined the shape of the petals, tilting the fabric to show Kamila what she was doing. Then she stuck a small silver needle through the neat and even holes of the stencil to puncture the fabric beneath. Beading would later fill these small spaces.
    Malika was a natural teacher. She explained each step to her sister in detail as she went, demonstrating her technique in slow and deliberate moves. Her attentive pupil followed the lesson closely, and took over where she could in the hope that doing it herself would help her better remember everything Malika was showing her. “Now I wish I had paid better attention when Mother taught you to sew, Malika Jan!” she exclaimed.
    Soon Kamila was ready to bead. Together she and her sister sewed the tiny, hollow stones onto the flower by hand until the dress had a yellow blossom with small spaces of blue at its center.
    Malika then turned back to finishing the garment, and announced that Kamila was ready to learn how