Free A House Without Windows by Nadia Hashimi

family organized an evening where they could get together and watch an Indian movie. Zeba had been invited too, and she’d sat cheerfully with the women, mesmerized by the whirl of colors, women dancing in dazzling saris, arms and exposed bellies gyrating lasciviously. The bache-film, the heartthrob of the movie, pounded his fist against his chest as he danced around his beloved, arms spread out in a bold declaration of love. Down on his knees, he thrust himself toward her in a way that made Zeba’s pious sister-in-law avert her eyes while the other women cheered with delight. Till the end of his days he would love only her, he sang. The room pulsed with the synchronized heartbeats of a dozen women hungry for a love so dangerously close to sin. Zeba blushed. Kamal had sung this song for her just a few days ago, squeezing her bottom flirtatiously as she passed him in the narrow hallway of their home. Zeba ran her fingers through her son’s hair. Basir, just three years old, lay curled at her feet—a small version of his father.
    Heady, intoxicating, blasphemous love. The girl smiled coyly, skipping toward him and then away again in a dizzying dance of indecision. The children giggled and imitated the movements. One of the women laughed and slapped her four-year-old daughter on the shoulder.
    â€œSit down before your father comes in! You think he wants to see a dancer in his house?”
    It was the most content Zeba would ever be, but it would not last long.
    Their village was thankfully quiet, unlike the rest of the rocket-riddled country, and life was as routine as one could hope for. Zeba was fortunate. Her in-laws, in the years before they’d died, had treated her reasonably well. Only Kamal’s sister, Tamina, kept her distance from them. Zeba didn’t blame her. She’d acted in the same petulant way toward her own brother’s wife.
    WHEN ZEBA GAVE BIRTH TO THEIR FIRST CHILD, BASIR, KAMAL had rejoiced. She’d given him a son who would look like him, carry on his father’s name, and bring honor to their family. Basir was bright and healthy and smiled readily.
    Their next two children hadn’t survived and thus began a dark period for Zeba and Kamal. They buried a little girl of just seven months; she had an angelic face that would dance through Zeba’s dreams for the rest of her life and make her wake with a tightness in her chest. Two years later, they buried another child. This one was a boy who died the morning after the clan had marked his forty days with a feast and a reading of the Qur’an. Kamal and Zeba didn’t speak much after that. It was not an angry silence that hung between them. There was simply nothing to say.
    â€œI won’t name her,” Zeba had said flatly when her third child was born. She had no reason to believe this child would endure, even after the forty days.
    â€œBut, Zeba, she needs a name. If something should happen to her . . . she needs a name.”
    Zeba knew her husband was right. Even if the child died, she would need a name to be buried. Still, she refused.
    â€œTo sleep, to sleep, Little Girl,” Zeba sang softly as she rocked her infant daughter.
    â€œLittle Girl has started to crawl,” Zeba proudly reported to Kamal one day.
    Zeba held her breath with every fever, every cold night, and every holiday, waiting for Allah to reclaim her. Only when Shabnam took her first steps did her parents finally choose a name for her, though, out of habit, they called her “Little Girl” until she was old enough to demand they use her real name.
    Kareema had been different. Kareema had renewed their confidence. They didn’t have to rely on miracles. They could be normal. They would have heartaches and triumphs just like any other couple. This was why Zeba ignored Kamal’s mood swings and the times he lashed out at her with a heavy fist. It was a testament, she told herself, to just how normal he was.
    Three