Zeba Gul’s Bakery

Every day I used to go to Zeba Gul’s bakery, sometimes in the morning and sometimes in the afternoon. I carried a tray of dough on my head. The bakery was a four-minute walk from our home on a muddy, dusty street. The houses were old and made of mud too. Zeba Gul’s bakery was in her house. Its windows were made of wood, and its doors were metal so when they opened or shut, it made a bad sound like a blast. The house had a small yard, and on the left side was her bakery. There was a small hole in the room and all the time, smoke poured out through that hole. The walls were so dirty that it was like the bakery was wearing black clothes all the time.

In the bakery, there was a tandoor oven, and Aunt Zeba Gul was sitting there from morning until evening, baking bread. Her face was black and smoky, her clothes were torn and burnt and under her nails was always dirty. There was a small metal bowl full of dirty water and she used that water to put the dough on the tandoor. People brought their dough in baskets or trays and waited for her to bake it. She was always busy because bread baked on the tandoor has a special taste, and women in our neighborhood loved to go there.

Men called the bakery BBC because Zeba Gul knew all the neighborhood news—what happened to Hajee Ali’s second wife? and what was going on with Sahar and her cruel step-mother? Every day Zeba Gul had the latest headlines, and the women were interested to talk about one another. Zeba Gul was not only the baker; she was also judge, journalist and advisor. She didn’t like me at all. She always insulted me and asked why I was going to school? She called me “Crazy School Girl.” And I didn’t like her either. When it was the turn to bake my bread, she was insulting me about the quality of my dough: “You can go to school, but you can’t make a nice dough,” she said. All the women coming to the bakery knew she didn’t like me. They were laughing and talking all the time about their husbands and their hard work at home, about Gul Jan’s husband who has a relationship with his wife’s sister, about a 13-year-old boy who was already getting married, about forced marriages and engagements, about love, clothes, cooking. I was always silent, sitting on a log.

I didn’t know who was living in Zeba Gul’s house exactly. There were always different guests in her house, young, old, ugly, nice, and it was difficult to recognize who they were. The only one I knew was her 15-year-old son. Every day at lunchtime, he was coming and was arguing with his mother, asking for money and hot bread. When he was there, Zeba Gul was embarrassed. She gave him money but he was not satisfied and then he would hit her or throw wood at her. It was part of the program every day. Her son was not going to school. He was a fat, tall boy, always with dirty clothes and an ugly smile, as if he hadn’t brushed his teeth in years and years. He had strong and heavy hands, and there was picture of a broken heart tattooed on his arm. He had a wild face. I hated him and I was afraid of him too, I hated him for disturbing his mom all the time. His eyes were like terrorists, always red and angry.

I can’t remember why I stopped going to Zeba Gul’s bakery, but years passed and I didn’t go any more. After that, life changed, another generation was born, everything changed, everything…

A lot of nice and modern buildings were built in our street, and beautiful tiny houses, and when I look at them, I think I am not in Afghanistan; I am in Europe. Other people called our street the Street of Happiness. Almost all the neighbors have cars, and even the children have mobile phones. Among all these nice houses, there is one special house made of bricks from expensive stones, and there is always a nice black car parked in front of the house. Its windows are coated with a dark film, and it seems very important people live in the house. When I cross the street, I think about the house and the people who live there. I think how lucky are the women living in that house. I enjoy looking at it; it has the face of a bride, lovely and fresh.

Last Sunday as I was crossing the street, I was thinking about the house again. The stones were smiling at me, and my eyes had fun looking at them. Suddenly a car came fast and spit the mud of the street on my clothes and face. There was mud all over me. I cleaned my eyes with my hands. I was so cross. I looked up to see the black car stop in front of the nice house. A man got out along with a woman wearing gold jewelry. I was shocked to see the woman was Zeba Gul and the man was her son. Zeba Gul looked at me, giggled and asked, “Oh Crazy School Girl, are you still going to school? Did you fail?” And her son? He is, I later found out, a member of parliament now.

By Roya