The Dressmaker of Khair Khana (8 page)

The high walls of their courtyard prevented anyone in the street from seeing inside, so Kamila had little fear about curious or nosy passersby asking unwanted questions. And with Malika in the house she had someone to turn to for help if things went wrong. She prayed they never would.

Soon after Malika's arrival, Kamila stopped by her sister's room to see how she was settling in. She found Malika putting her husband's and children's things in a small cupboard.

“How are you?” Kamila asked.

“Oh, we'll be fine,” Malika said, deflecting the question. Though she was still a very young woman, she had always worn the air of a wise elder. Kamila thought Malika looked paler and a bit thinner than usual. Still, it was the older girl who reached out, trying to reassure her sister--and also, perhaps, herself--that everything would be all right. “It's so good for the children to be with all of you--I'm glad we're here. How is your work coming?”

“Pretty good, though not as well as if you had done it!” Kamila answered. “I tried to remember everything from our lessons, but it's much harder than I thought, to be honest. I think we have managed okay, though.”

She continued: “Maybe you could take a look at some of our dresses?”

Malika welcomed a break from all the unpacking. Within moments Kamila had summoned her younger sisters and they now stood in the small room holding armfuls of new clothing. Malika turned each of the garments inside out and examined the stitches and the seams; then she held each dress up to the girls to judge their proportions, and to see how they hung. Saaman and Laila stood in an expectant silence as Malika studied their work with excruciating attention. After several minutes, she offered her assessment.

“The work is very good,” she said, smiling at the girls. A light-colored dress still hung draped over her elbow. “There are a few things I will teach you to make it even better, but overall you've done an excellent job. Kamila has been a very good teacher. But Kamila, you need some help with this belt--we can work on it this afternoon.”

The following evening, Kamila readied the dresses and pantsuits--some of them now with particularly handsome belts--for delivery to Mehrab's store. She folded each item with great care, one end over the other, a total of four times to form a neat square, before placing it in a clear plastic bag she then folded and sealed. When she had finished, Kamila slid the garments into two white grocery bags and lined them up carefully near the door.

“I really think this business will work,” Kamila told her sister as they sat in the living room sipping tea. Three of Malika's children had gone to sleep a few hours earlier, and she was finally enjoying a moment of quiet before falling into her own bed after the long day. “The girls are doing very well. And it's so good for us to think about work and business instead of just sitting around here all day feeling bored and anxious. Now I just have to find more orders at Lycee Myriam tomorrow. We need more work!”

“Kamila Jan, I'm nervous about you going to the market,” Malika replied. One of the twins was running a fever and now slept uneasily against her shoulder. “The more work you get, the more you will have to be there and the more likely it is that something could go wrong.”

Kamila could not disagree. But now that she had begun to see the possibilities, she had no intention of stopping. Their work could do a great deal of good for their own family--and maybe even some others in the neighborhood. Now, perhaps more than ever before, they must push forward.

“I know,” she said. And she left it at that.

At ten o'clock the next morning Kamila set out for Lycee Myriam with Rahim, who had gone to school in his new white turban only long enough to see that there were not enough teachers for all the students who had assembled for class. Women had accounted for well over half of all educators before the Taliban arrived; now that they couldn't work, their male colleagues scrambled to keep up with the demands of educating all the city's boys and implementing the Taliban's new, more religiously focused curriculum. Lacking teachers, a number of schools had shut their doors, but Rahim's Khair Khana classrooms had remained open and were now absorbing students from nearby neighborhoods. Like all the boys in his class, Rahim now had to balance his schoolwork with his mahram duties; he knew as well as the girls did that family came first, and his sisters needed him at home.

Heading off with Rahim, Kamila put on her floor-length coat and held the straps of her square black bag close to her. Again they took the back roads, but this time they moved more quickly once they reached the bazaar. They passed several Amr bil-Maroof milling around the market; Kamila kept her head down and her brother nearby. At last they reached their destination. Kamila checked to make sure that the store was empty and that there were no Taliban in the hall outside, then she followed her brother into Mehrab's shop. With a sigh of relief only she could hear, she placed the meticulously packed stack of handmade dresses and suits on the counter.

“Hello, I am Roya,” she said. “This is my brother, and we are here to deliver your order as we discussed last week.”

Mehrab looked nervously past Kamila to check for himself that no one was watching, then quickly counted the pile of clothing in front of him. He took one dress and one pantsuit from the plastic bags to inspect the quality of the work.

“These will do,” he said after spending a moment looking at the garments. “They are good, but if you made this seam smaller on the pants and added some more beading to the belt on the dress, they would be even better.”

“Thank you,” she said. “We'll make sure to make those changes for the next order.” That presumed, of course, that there would be a next order, she thought to herself.

Mehrab opened a drawer beneath the counter and handed Kamila an envelope filled with afghani, enough to buy the family flour and groceries for a week. Kamila's heart soared. At last she could see real, tangible progress for all the work they had done and the risks she had taken. She wanted to jump up and down with excitement and count the money right then and there. But instead she calmly took the pile of blue-, rose-, and green-colored notes and placed it at the bottom of her bag.

“Would you like to order anything else?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager. “My brother and I can come back next week if there is anything you need.”

Mehrab said he would take three more pantsuits in the traditional style. He would wait on the dresses until he saw how the first ones sold. Kamila thanked him for his business. Afterward, she rushed back out to the street, intent on getting them out of Lycee Myriam well before the call to prayer, as she had promised her sisters she would.

Before she had taken even one hundred steps, however, a small side street caught Kamila's attention. Straight ahead and to the left, just off the stony and well-trodden path leading from the road, she saw a red and white walkway.

“Rahim, do you think that is the street with the shop that Zalbi mentioned?”

“I don't know, Roya,” he said, smiling at his sister's tenacity, “but I am sure we are about to find out!”

Nearly all the boys in school had sisters working at home, and Rahim's classmate Zalbi had recently told him about a family friend who ran a tailoring shop nearby. “He is a very good man; maybe he would want to buy your dresses,” Zalbi had said. It was important to work with honorable people they could trust, and Kamila had been eager to meet the shopkeeper. Now was as good a time as any, she thought, feeling hopeful. Besides, if this was the street, it wouldn't be nearly so easy to spot from the main road, and that would make orders and deliveries a bit easier. Peering out to the left and right to make sure no one was paying them any attention, Kamila headed down the walkway with her brother in search of a new customer.

An Idea Is Born . . . but Will It Work?

Turning down the wide alleyway, Kamila and Rahim left the bustle of the bazaar behind them. Kamila slowed her steps and allowed herself just a moment to enjoy the stillness of the lane after the tense half hour she had spent trying to make them both invisible in the heart of the Lycee Myriam bazaar. She was grateful for the silence of the barren side street.

As she walked, Kamila scanned the storefronts on each side of the road, spotting stores that sold fabric, kitchen supplies, and shoes. Almost none of them had any customers. Nearing the end of the narrow open-air strip mall, they at last came upon a modest tailoring shop with long, narrow windows that faced the street. Women's dresses hung neatly next to one another in a pastel rainbow that lined the walls inside. The name “Sadaf” was hand-painted on a weather-beaten sign that had been nailed to a cement overhang above the doorway.

“I think this is it,” said Rahim.

Kamila nodded.

“Let me do the talking,” she said. “If he doesn't seem like someone we can trust, we'll just walk right back out, okay?”

Kamila was nervous as they entered the small, threadbare shop. She struggled to make out the details of the store through the late morning shadows that hung over the white walls and bare floor. Like most of Kabul's businesses, Sadaf had no electricity and relied instead on the sunlight that crept in during the daytime hours.

Fighting back her fear, Kamila momentarily paused at the entrance, holding the doorknob tight, but she quickly reminded herself of everyone back home who was counting on her.

I can't be scared, she thought. I'm doing this for my family, and Allah will help to keep us safe.

As the door slammed closed behind her, the shopkeeper looked up from the counter. He was folding long dresses and roomy, wide-legged pants like the ones Kamila had seen through the window. His clothes were among the prettiest samples she had seen of Taliban-era fashion. Sadaf's inventory clearly matched the times. The shopkeeper was young, maybe Kamila's own age, with a bushy beard that overwhelmed his narrow chin. His bright eyes looked remarkably kind.

“Good morning,” he said. “May I help you, sister? Can I show you anything?”

He was extremely polite--much more so than Mehrab. Kamila felt her confidence returning.

“No, thank you, sir,” Kamila began. “My name is Roya; my sisters and I are tailors in Khair Khana. My brother here is helping us. His friend Zalbi is a friend of your family's and he suggested we come to see you. We're looking for work and we would be very glad to make some dresses for your store if you are interested.”

“I am Ali,” he replied, clasping Rahim's hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you. I would be glad to see your work if you've brought any with you. My brother and I are looking for seamstresses to make dresses for us.”

Judging by the fact that he had set up shop in Khair Khana, a largely Tajik suburb that was home to many families from Parwan and Panjshir, plus the lilt of his Shomali accent, Kamila guessed that Ali's parents, like hers, were from the north. That they were conversing in Dari, the Persian language spoken in the northern regions, rather than Pashto, the traditional language of the Pashtun south, made her more certain of it.

“I hope your family is doing well,” said Kamila. “My brother and sisters and I are working to support ourselves while our parents are in the north. My father is in Parwan and our older brother had to go to Pakistan because of security. We've started a dressmaking business in our house and we'd really appreciate your support.”

The young man returned Kamila's good wishes for her family and added that his parents too were from Parwan. The three teenagers shared the news and the rumors they'd heard about the recent fighting in the north. Then Ali began to tell Kamila a bit of his own story.

“Sadaf is my store,” he said. “I've put nearly everything I have into it. Before the Taliban I had a pushcart selling linens and kitchen supplies. But then everyone stopped buying. And it got too dangerous to be out on the street all day. So I started my shop here. At least I know that people will always need clothing, even if they're buying less of it now.”

Ali looked down as if he were going to stop speaking. Kamila realized with some surprise that she and the shopkeeper had a lot in common. They were both young people caught in circumstances they had had nothing to do with, who were fighting as hard as they could to take care of their very large families. Right now, Ali had more than a dozen relatives depending upon him for food and shelter.

“One of my brothers, Mahmood, just fled Jabul Saraj,” Ali continued, referring to the mountain-ringed town just south of Kamila's parents in Parwan. Kamila knew from the radio and neighbors' reports that the town was now a major battleground in the war between the Taliban and Massoud.

“He had been working in our family's grocery shop since he finished his army service a few years ago. When the front line of the war moved to Jabul Saraj, he took his wife and little children to the Salang mountain pass to wait out the fighting. They walked for three hours to reach the mountains and slept outside that night with many other families. The next day people tried to tell him it was safe to go home, but my brother knew better--the fighting had just started, it wasn't even close to ending. So he fled with his family through Khinjan and Poli Khumri to Mazar. They stayed there with some of our relatives for a few months, but finding work was very hard, and Mahmood has a big family to support. Finally he decided to come here to try to earn a living. There's only one way into Kabul now because of all the fighting, you know, and the trip from Mazar took him three full days. Anyway, I helped him open his own tailoring shop just down the street. He was worried at first because he didn't know anything about women's clothing, but I told him that he knew plenty about sales from running our parents' store and that that was much more important. We can rely on seamstresses from the neighborhood for our merchandise.”

When Ali finished his story, Kamila assured him that she and her sisters would be happy to help Mahmood fill his store with inventory whenever he needed it.

“Well then, let's see what kind of work you are doing,” he said.

Kamila swiftly unfolded her sample and spread it out on the display case. Ali inspected the dress closely, flipping it front and back and examining the hand-stitched hems. “It's very nice work,” he said. "I'll take six dresses and, if you can make them, four pantsuits.

“But see here,” he continued, still studying the garment. “Can you change this detail along the waist of the dress?” Kamila quickly agreed, and committed the details of the waistline to memory--she didn't want to waste time and, besides, drawing was illegal now. Ali then walked around the counter and moved toward the front window looking out over the street. He pointed to a lovely white wedding dress that was hanging there.

“Roya, do you think you and your sisters could make these?” he asked. “They're a bit more complicated and will probably take a little longer, but that is no problem.”

Kamila didn't have to think about it; she immediately said, “Of course.” Laila's impetuousness had become infectious, she realized, smiling. Ali took one of the long-sleeved beaded bridal gowns down from its display and handed it to Kamila to use as a model. “I'll take three of these, and we can see how it goes from there.”

Kamila thanked Ali for his business.

“This means a lot to my family,” she said. “We won't let you down.”

“Thank you, sister,” said Ali. “May God keep you and your family safe.”

With that, Kamila and Rahim left the store for the street and headed home once more. By now they were perilously close to the noontime call to prayer, but Kamila was thrilled about having a new customer for her slowly expanding business. This is how it starts, Kamila thought. Now we just have to keep it growing. And we have to make sure nothing goes wrong.

Walking home, Kamila thought about whether they would need help, in the form of more seamstresses, to complete the orders for Mehrab and Ali. Right now they were getting by, but that was hardly enough; with the new orders coming in, they needed a better, more streamlined process. Most of all, they needed more hands. She would speak with her sisters about it tonight. In the meantime, she had the wedding dresses to think about.

After dinner the sisters settled into the living room to begin the evening's sewing. Kamila lit the hurricane lamps so they could see what they were doing. Just for a second she indulged a thought about how much easier electricity would have made their work. What a luxury it would be to flip a switch and have the room light up and the sewing machines begin humming!

“So I think we need to make a few changes,” Kamila said to the girls. “We have more orders now, and we need help. Do you guys have any ideas?”

Saaman, Laila, and even their youngest sister, Nasrin, chimed in at once, each trying to speak over the other. Yes, they surely did have ideas!

“Okay, okay,” Kamila said, laughing at the cacophony of voices that filled their makeshift workspace. “One at a time!”

“What if we divide up the cutting and beading--make it something like an assembly line, so that one person is responsible for each,” Saaman said. “Whoever is best at cutting can do it for all of us. That would help the dresses look a little more professional, too.”

Nasrin nodded. “I agree. I also think we should clear out this room to make more space to sew. Mother isn't here in her usual place, and Father doesn't need his seat in front of the radio anymore. We might as well turn this into a real workshop. When they return, we can put things back just as they were. Also, I think Malika would like to have a bigger place to work, and Rahim won't mind. So really, there's nothing to stop us from using the space however we like.”

“Nasrin, you are going to have us turn the entire house into a little factory!” Kamila said, breaking out into a giggle. “Our own parents wouldn't recognize their own home!”

Laila chimed in to support her little sister.

“Nasrin is right. It's a pain to have to put away our work every evening. It would be much easier if we could keep everything out. I think it will save us some time, too!”

A sense of purpose drove the discussion, and Kamila saw clearly that the business had become the main focus of their days. Together they had found a way to be productive in spite of their confinement. And with so much work in front of them, they almost forgot about all the problems of the world outside.

“There's one other thing I want to mention, since we're talking about the business,” Kamila told her sisters. “Both Mehrab and Ali said other women had come to them with dresses to sell. We really need to make sure our work is as creative, beautiful, and professional as possible. And if we commit to a deadline, we have to deliver on time, no matter how large the order is. We want them to know us as reliable girls who make the dresses that their customers want to buy. Razia is coming over later; let's ask her for ideas about other girls in Khair Khana who might be able to come over and sew with us. And we'll definitely need some help from Malika on those wedding dresses.”

Since her return to Khair Khana, Malika's business had also begun to prosper--at least by the standards of the current economy, in which mere survival constituted success. It had begun with women who came to see her from her old neighborhood of Karteh Parwan. Then women in Khair Khana began to hear from friends and neighbors that there was a master tailor living among them who could meet some of their fancier clothing needs. Most of Malika's clients were slightly older women who had lived through so many of Kabul's changes these past thirty years, from the relative freedom of the 1970s and 1980s through the stricter Mujahideen dress code of the last five years and now this, the time of the chadri. They knew they must stay within the limits of what was permitted by the Taliban but refused to completely shed their own sense of style. It was a delicate balance that Malika had instinctively understood and come to master.

By now, a few new customers were stopping by each week to place orders for her elegant dresses and pantsuits. Malika's designs retained the distinctly Afghan broad sleeves and legs and baggy fit, but also reflected her appreciation for the French-style cuts that had been so popular in Kabul in the 1970s and 1980s. Before the Taliban, Malika had occasionally shopped the used clothing stalls at her bazaar in Karteh Parwan for the Western-style dresses or skirt suits seen in the capital during the royal family's reform era and, later, the period of Dr. Najibullah's rule. She would take the garments home and disassemble them so she could see and learn how the seams fit together and which fabrics worked best for the different styles she was trying to achieve.

Women ordered Malika's more elaborate party dresses for wedding celebrations and Eid, the holiday marking the end of the holy month of Ramadan. But with the fighting still going on and the economy in a tailspin, weddings, which had always been ornate and expensive affairs in Afghanistan, seemed to be happening far less often. To begin with, many men had gone to fight on the front lines. And others had left Afghanistan to find work elsewhere, shrinking the pool of potential grooms. Because so many families had fled to Pakistan or Iran, there were fewer aunts, uncles, and cousins to invite. Those who remained in Kabul could hardly afford the days-long celebrations that in good times could easily cost as much as ten thousand dollars--an astronomical sum that forced many grooms into lifelong debt--and sometimes much more than that. Everyone knew that any sort of social gathering could bring trouble, and stories spread of Taliban soldiers bursting into people's living rooms to break up wedding parties on suspicion that guests might be dancing or playing music, including the dhol, the Afghan two-sided drum, in violation of the new rules. The worst of these incidents ended with the Taliban hauling male guests--and sometimes even the groom--off to prison, where they would remain for a few days until family members could either plead or pay their way out.