She arranges her medicines before her, a silent ritual preceding her lament. “With each dose, the pain swells,” she mourns. “Oh, the burden of old age! Unable to eat properly, dress decently, or even stroll freely…” Her lips tremble, and her furrowed brows betray her distress as she continues, “It’s been four years since my front teeth fell out. Only three or four remain, clinging on. Each day, I struggle to consume a mere morsel of bread, hoping it will sustain me until nightfall. But even that small sustenance scorches my stomach, indigestible.” She gestures with her hand, fingers separating, illustrating her meager intake. Tightening her embrace around her son’s photograph, lost to an explosion in western Kabul, she delicately wipes away the dust with a corner of her scarf. With another corner, she brushes away the tears that streak her weary face. “My beloved son, my only solace in this world,” she whispers. “My heart aches endlessly for him, each day a torrent of tears, clinging to hope that God may reunite us. And as he departed, my teeth began their slow descent, a physical echo of the grief that consumes me.”
Auntie Jamila, a lonely and suffering old woman, bears the scars and wounds of a harsh life, with the bitterness of time casting its shadow over her existence, draining the vitality from her soul and the radiance from her face. She reminisces about bygone years, when the end of spring was upon her, a time when she was a tall, slender youth, her long locks reaching down to her waist. Days when she would run barefoot on stone and wood, herding sheep to pasture. In those days, the seasons held little significance for her; it was always spring in her world. But unaware that one day her spring would abruptly surrender all its bloom and freshness to autumn’s grasp. Jamila’s marriage unfolds in utter obliviousness to the companionship of her life partner, devoid even of understanding or recognition of shared existence. “Returning home from the farmlands, my mother, God rest her soul, delivered unexpected news: she had arranged my engagement to her uncle’s son. With four sons in the family, I couldn’t discern which of them would become my betrothed. My mother forbade any inquiries into their identities. Time slipped by, marked by the repetitive visits of one particular boy. Eventually, it dawned on me that he was the chosen one. Those were the days when youth and grace enveloped me, while he stood much older, yet…”
Throughout Auntie Jamila’s life, there has never been a trace of satisfaction, joy, or enthusiasm. She has always accepted whatever fate has dealt her and carried on with her life without any rebellion or defiance. Many years of Auntie Jamila’s life pass by in this manner. But no child is born into her arms. Auntie Jamila, accustomed to accepting the circumstances of her life, spends a considerable amount of time in this state. One day, as she returns home from her chores, she encounters a young woman who introduces herself as the second wife of her husband. “It’s like they’ve poured boiling water over me. It’s unjust, you know? For years, I’ve toiled like a slave, herding sheep, enduring endless chatter and complaints from every corner of the household, only for him to come home with a second wife in the end.” Auntie Jamila explains that after several months, when there is no news of the second wife becoming pregnant, her husband goes to Iran with this woman for treatment and spends four years in that country without contacting her or sending any money for expenses. Then, when the treatments prove unsuccessful and it becomes clear that the infertility issue lies with Auntie Jamila’s husband, the second wife leaves him, and Auntie Jamila’s husband returns to the village.
“I was almost out of my youth when I willingly accepted the newborn of one of the villagers who had too many children. I didn’t know if I’d be happy or choked up, but I thanked God and embraced the child as my own,” Auntie Jamila says. With much insistence, Auntie Jamila convinces her husband to leave that village forever and move to another city so their child can be away from his first family. Thus, Auntie Jamila’s family starts a new life in western Kabul, dedicating all their efforts to the betterment and growth of their only son, who was growing up.
In life, pain has its flavor of bitterness, moments that crush the soul. Yet, for Auntie Jamila, pain transcends words; it’s etched into every fiber of her being. She endured the unfathomable loss of her only son, Mohammad Ehsan, a tenth-grade student, to a roadside mine explosion in western Kabul. Though not his biological mother, Auntie Jamila poured her heart into nurturing Mohammad Ehsan, mothering him every day and every moment. Now, she and her husband navigate the alleys of Kabul, their existence colored by unbearable grief. Mohammad Ehsan’s absence leaves a void in her arms, yet the neighborhood children fill it with their presence, becoming surrogate sons to Auntie Jamila and her husband.