Rizwana always breaks the rules and fools you. Just the other day, she hid the stone she had just borrowed from me and said it was lost. I don’t want to play with her anymore. I left the playground and sat on the side, watching her and Wajiha, her aunt’s daughter, play. Wajiha was wearing a fashionable dress. A pink frog.
Everyone was saying there was something going on in Rizwana’s home today. They had invited the whole street with all their children for lunch. Rizwana didn’t know anything. Or so she said. I asked her at school today. She is an intelligent girl at school- why lie? I sometimes feel jealous of her. She knows all the poems in our Dari book by heart. And reads them like a parrot, our Dari teacher said one day. She got the first position in third grade last year.
I went home to get ready, as all kids were going to Rizwana’s home. I washed my hands and face, and wore the dress I had bought on Eid. Mom only allows me to wear it when we go somewhere else. We have to be careful not to ruin it or make it dirty. My dress has a flowy skirt in yellow color, the top in navy.
As I stepped in the streets, I saw Rizwana, Sumaia, Wajiha, and Qamar playing. They were playing ‘catch me police’. Qamar was trying to catch Rizwana and Wajiha was running after Sumaia.
“Let’s go girls.”
Riwana shouted immediately, “Let us finish this round and we’ll go.”
I went to play because I was too bored. I didn’t notice, and stepped in a puddle full of mud. And some drops jumped on my skirt. I stepped aside and held my skirt, trying to clean it, it got worse. Rizwana got caught. She stopped and looked at my dress and said, “Stupid girl, it’s so dirty,” and she suggested I go home to wash it. But I couldn’t go home because if my mom saw it, she would scold me, so I just went to Rizwana’s home.
Some were playing dohl (drum). A woman stood up and came our way as soon as she saw us. She hugged Rizwana and kissed her cheek. Others came too, and settled her down on a chair, the only chair. Qamar and I were confused.
I saw a old woman come forward and put a green scarf on her head uttering ‘Bismillah’ three times, then kissed her forehead. She opened a pack of sweets and gave each of us one. I took it with my muddy hand and looked at Rizwana in the eye. The women were congratulating the old lady, I heard her say: “She’s the bride of my Asif.”
Rizwana was sitting there, a green scarf covering her face. I was holding my dirty skirt, chewing a sticky sweet and my warm tears.
-Tahera K.
Guest Writer
Girl Museum