This finger took him
This finger cooked him
This finger put him on a plate
This finger sat down and ate
And when little pinky asked, to be fair
Auntie, Auntie, where’s my share?
In the pot, she said short and sly.
But the pot is empty, was his reply.
Then it must be in the cat’s belly round.
But the cat is nowhere to be found.
Here he is! Meow Meow Meow Meow!
With the cat’s meows, Madar’s fingers would tickle at Faheem’s sides and he would fall into a fit of laughter. Sometimes afflicted by delighted hiccups, he would stick his palm out and beg for another round.
“A sparrow?” Shair repeated.
“Yes, you must have heard of them. They are winged creatures who live in the trees,” I explained. Neelab lowered her face to hide her smirk.
My snarky reply barely seemed to draw a reaction, and I thought perhaps Shair was tolerating my mischief because of my mother.
My mother couldn’t stand keeping aloof from the people who guarded over us. She made small talk with all the soldiers. She knew the names of their wives and parents. She remembered where their families were from and always made a point to draw some line of connection—a common high school or a relative who had descended from the same province. She stopped when she spoke to the soldiers, instead of speaking only in passing. It took just a couple of seconds to look a person in the eye and give them the respect they were due, she insisted.
But they are just soldiers, I’d once said to my mother.
We are all soldiers of some kind was her obscure reply.
I had walked away instead of persisting. I didn’t wear a uniform or carry a rifle over my shoulder. I hadn’t sworn to protect the nation or the president. But I kept these arguments to myself because I was certain my mother would otherwise launch into the many ways in which I could improve my character. And sometimes I wanted to revel in my imperfections.
One day I watched my mother fold a pile of clothes I’d outgrown. She’d used a length of satin ribbon to tie them into a neat bundle, which she then delivered to Shair when we arrived at the palace. As we walked to the parlor where Neelab’s mother awaited us, I asked Madar why a soldier would need girl’s clothes.
Shaking her head, she told me that Shair had three children, including a daughter two years younger than me.
Clothes look better on children than in drawers, she’d said.
Impossible as it seemed, I tried to imagine Shair as a father. I wondered if he stood on guard in his home as he did here in the palace. I shared this thought with Neelab and then hunched over to salute tiny, imaginary children with a sour expression on my face. Neelab had laughed so hard that she snorted, which led to both of us doubling over.
“I thought you were leaving today. Has your mother not asked you to ready yourself?” Shair asked. I’d never heard him string so many words together. “Perhaps she is looking for you.”
“No,” I replied. “We’re staying with my father. He and the president have had much to discuss.”
Shair looked stymied, as if he were trying to translate words into a language he didn’t speak.
“Are you all right?” Neelab asked. She had my mother’s heart. She sensed uneasiness in others and felt an urgency to do something about it. But Shair did not look at her. He cleared his throat and waved us off without another word.
“The candle is not at his brightest today, is he?” I murmured as we hastily walked down the hallway. Neelab shook her head.
When we were far enough away, I turned to see if Shair was still watching us. Backlit by the sunlight that fell through the windows behind him, he had both hands on his hips. Face to face, I’d felt comfortable enough to speak freely with him, but from this distance, his dark silhouette quickened my step.
Neelab pulled on my arm.
“He’s just doing his job. If he didn’t scold us, someone would scold him. And much more severely.”
She was right. During a parade, Neelab and I had stood shoulder to shoulder, watching rows of soldiers march in sync past the president and his family. To the public’s eye, the formations were perfect. Men in uniform were propelled to synchrony by a drumbeat, by stripes and stars on breast pockets and tasseled epaulets. We watched the pomp of our country’s military with pride that day.
The very next week, Neelab and I snuck away from dinner and slipped into the former harem of King Habibullah. Decades after the king’s assassination, his killer had still not been identified. There was an abundance of suspects: his son who then assumed the throne, an English spy, a disgruntled peasant. The harem had once been home to forty women, all of them vying for the king’s attentions. I was convinced that we could find some hidden message or overlooked clue confirming that one of his concubines had had a hand in arranging his end.
But instead of solving the mystery of the murdered king, we stumbled upon a general glaring at a soldier accused of accepting a bribe. The soldier stood with his arms at his sides, his lip trembling. He denied the charge, first in a bold voice and then, as the general barked his contempt for liars, in a whimper.
From behind two columns wide enough to hide our presence, we watched the general’s hand slice through the air and clap violently against the soldier’s cheek. The sound reverberated against the walls of the two-storied room. We ducked our heads as if afraid to be struck by the ricocheting sound.
I wondered if Shair had ever been reprimanded so brutally. If I were more like my mother, I might have found a reason to ask him. It was odd, I realized, not to know anything about the men who were tasked with defending us against all the rest of the world.
But I did not give it more thought. With the carelessness of children, we continued our quest, followed by the ghosts of kings and concubines, of roosters and soldiers, of all the many pompous creatures who strutted with pride just before their fall.
Chapter 4
A few paces before reaching my father’s office, we slowed to catch our breath and compose ourselves. I stole a glance through the glass door and saw Boba in his usual position—a pen pinched between his fingers, poised as if to strike the page before him. He didn’t even notice when we opened the door.
“Boba,” I said softly.
My father looked up, eyebrows raised.
“Girls! What good fortune brings you my way this morning?”
The office had just enough space for a wooden desk and two chairs. There was a curio behind his seat with book spines running the length of each shelf. On one wall was a trio of black-and-white photographs of uniformed men. A picture of our family sat on his desk, facing him. In the picture, I held Faheem while our parents sat on either side of us. Faheem looked ready to wriggle out of my arms, and I looked terrified of dropping him.
“We’ve finished our homework for the week and returned our books to the library. How is your work going?” I asked, easing into the true purpose of our visit. Boba leaned back in his chair. He seemed more intrigued than annoyed by our interruption.
“I might have better luck flying a kite in a box,” he replied with a sigh. He lowered his eyeglasses. “Where are your brothers?”
“Rostam is trying to train the white pigeons in the garden to do flips and loops, and Faheem is watching him.”