The Girls’ Story: My Luminous Self

I still remember everything as if it were the very first day—and the most painful part is exactly that.

I had spent the entire night reviewing geography concepts, my head crowded with lines of latitude and longitude. I had to memorize the names of every seasonal river that began in the eastern mountains, flowed down, and crossed into other lands. And I wondered—what difference does it make if I forget them all the moment tomorrow’s exam is over?

It is six o’clock sharp on a Tuesday morning. As always, I am late—and, as always, my socks are nowhere to be found. Without them, I will have to stand for the first forty-five minutes in one spot in the schoolyard. Still, better than not going at all. I’ve been awake all night, and now the thought of scoring a zero is unbearable, even if this exam is just a minor one.

The dry autumn air stings me. The weather has turned cold, but my seasonal allergies haven’t left me yet. Everything feels surreal. While tying my shoelaces, I felt two faint sparks of static run through my fingers. And now, after all that struggle to put my shoes on, I remember I forgot to remove my nail polish. There’s no time to take my shoes off again. On tiptoe, I sneak back into the house. Last night I had left the bottle of polish remover on the TV stand in the hallway so I wouldn’t forget. I slip it into the back pocket of my schoolbag.

Yesterday, Roshan asked me to lend her the pink nail polish I had just bought. Tomorrow is her uncle’s wedding, and today she and her family are heading to their village, where the wedding will take place. I rush out of the house, and only halfway down the road do I wonder—did I even lock the door behind me?

The school gate is just a few steps away. The sun is slowly climbing, though the night’s chill still lingers. I hear the transport bus coming up behind me, then watch as it passes and leaves me choking in its dust. I sneeze and realize I’ve even forgotten tissues. Someone yanks at my scarf from behind. It’s her. It’s always her. I’ve told her so many times to stop, but she never listens. I love her, but sometimes her stubbornness gets under my skin. She always has her way of announcing her presence, always making sure no one can ignore her.

—Good morning!

—Didn’t I tell you not to pull my scarf? Good morning.

—So, did you study geography? Oh, and tell me—did you bring the nail polish?

—I did. Do you have a tissue?

—Today’s your lucky day. I even brought extra.

At the school entrance, we both stop in front of the guard. Without a word, we place our bags on her rickety old table that looks like it could collapse at any moment. I feel calm. I know she’ll glance at them carelessly and won’t notice the nail polish. Her eyes are so tired and heavy with sleep that she doesn’t even notice my bare feet in my shoes.

The students are gathering in the schoolyard. Morning assembly begins, as always. Unlike usual, I head to the very back and stand in the last row. I don’t want to risk being kept outside for the first period.

—Why are you back here?

Of course, it’s Roshan shouting from the front of the line. I don’t answer. I watch her rush to the back row to stand beside me.

—Why did you come to the back?

I explain.

—It won’t help. Mrs. Aslami always checks all the way to the end.

I see Mrs. Aslami coming down the stairs. In her left hand, a notebook and pen; her right hand, as always, tucked into her pocket. She starts checking each student’s uniform from the front of the line. I silently pray she’ll let me pass this time.

Someone tugs at the hem of my pants. I look down. It’s Roshan. She’s bent over, pulling off her shoes. Now she takes off her socks and hands them to me. I’m stunned.

—What are you doing?

—Put them on. First period is math.

She knows math is my passion, just as I know how much she hates it.

It’s twelve minutes past twelve.

—When will you be back from the village, Roshan?

—We’re leaving today. Tonight is the henna night. Tomorrow’s the wedding, and the day after is the farewell feast.

—So we’re free of you until Saturday. Thank goodness.

—Oh, right—you still haven’t given me the nail polish!

I hand it to her. But I forget to give her socks back.

—Goodbye. See you Saturday.

I pretended it didn’t matter, but inside, I was heavy with the thought of two long days without her in class. Our friendship is the kind where, if Roshan is absent, I stay inside during recess—and if I am absent, she does the same. Our names are always mentioned together. Say mine, and hers follows right after. And now, with her gone for two days, I knew recess would drag on endlessly, and the teachers’ voices would feel duller than ever.

…

It may sound strange, but sometimes I wonder: that day, did she paint her nails with the pink polish? Did she like it? Did she wear that pink dress she was always raving about? If she had come back and seen her geography score lower than mine, would she have been upset?

It is seven o’clock sharp on a Tuesday morning, the 14th of Qaws, 1401. The air is cold. A mask covers my face, and each breath fogs up my glasses. I am ready to leave. This time, I am not late. My socks are right where they should be. Roshan’s socks. One day, without realizing it, these two pieces of cloth became my whole world, the only memory of her I had left.

I wear Roshan’s socks. Today, I am two people. With each step I take, her shadow walks beside me. Today, we celebrate our graduation. I toss my graduation cap into the sky twice—once for me, standing here, and once for Roshan, and for all the Roshan’s whose lives were stolen away. For every step that was left unfinished.

Though I stand alone, my joy is doubled, and it is laced with a strange grief. My share is not mine alone; it belongs to all those who left their dreams unfinished and who, in the flight of this cap, are alive once more.

Now I am that poem:

“With your living ones I live, with your dead ones I die—

Have you seen anyone more torn than me?”