Jalil and Zarmina

Story – Part Two

With a bundle of alfalfa on my back, I walked toward the stable. I dropped the load beside the animals’ trough as Zarmina quietly slipped into the hujra. Inside, her father, Anwar Kaka, lay resting on a wooden bed. I went closer and greeted him warmly.

“Salam, Anwar Kaka. How are you? Has the pain eased a little?”

He tried to sit up, but his strength failed him. I quickly moved behind, slipped my hands under his arms, and placed a pillow for support. His face was pale, and his voice trembled.

“All night I burned with fever and shook with chills. My body feels shattered—like wheat crushed beneath a millstone.”

Zarmina was his only daughter. She had no brothers, no sisters, and her mother had left this world when she was only eleven. Her father, and Allah above, were all she had.

As he shared his suffering, Zarmina entered carrying a cup of cold water. She stepped softly into our conversation and handed me the glass. I accepted and sat near the foot of the bed.

“Last night nearly broke me,” Anwar Kaka whispered. “I turned from side to side, wishing I had a brother, a nephew, or even a son to carry me to the doctor. But I had no one.”

His eyes filled with tears. Zarmina, seeing her father’s helplessness, wept silently beside him.

“Kaka jan,” I said gently, “don’t say this. Am I not like your son? If only you had told me last night, I would have taken you straight to the city. But don’t worry. Get ready—I’ll take you today.”

He hesitated. “No, my child. I’ll drink tea, then visit the district clinic. That will be enough.”

I shook my head. “Kaka, you know the clinic. They have no medicine, or at best, the same two pills for everyone. Let me take you to the city. I have two friends there—both skilled doctors. Walijan Sherzad and Wasim Jan Sherzad. They will test your blood properly and find the truth.”

He sighed. “If you insist, then at least send your cousin Salki here to stay with Zarmina. I cannot leave her alone.”

“Done,” I replied. “But you should also change your clothes and, if you can, wash with cold water. It will lighten your body. I’ll change and return quickly.”

Zarmina tried to stop me: “Wait, I’ve brewed tea. Drink before you go.”

But I refused kindly. “I’ll drink in the city with my friend. It’s already late.”

Soon we were on our way. On the road, I called the doctor: “I’m bringing a patient. We’ll be there shortly.”

The doctor welcomed us, and when we arrived, he examined Anwar Kaka carefully. “Your blood infection is severe,” he said. Medicine was prescribed, and we stopped for lunch and prayer before returning to the village.

By evening, we reached home. Zarmina rushed out as we entered.

“Father, the animals have finished their fodder. What should I do?”

Her father replied: “Give them hay tonight, daughter. Tomorrow, Inshallah, I’ll cut fresh alfalfa.”

I offered to help, but he shook his head kindly. “No, my son. You’ve done enough already. Sit, rest, and drink tea.”

I excused myself. “I should go home—my mother will be waiting.”

That night, lying on my rooftop bed, I turned on the radio on my phone. Through the earphones came a soft, familiar song:

“My beloved calls with love,

Her necklace of cloves around her neck…”

When the song ended, a caller’s voice flowed through the radio. Soft, trembling, familiar.

“Salam, this is your sister from the district,” the girl said.

I sat upright in shock. The voice—it was Zarmina’s.

The host replied cheerfully: “Welcome back, our regular listener! What gift do you bring tonight?”

“Tonight,” Zarmina answered, “I will gift you a verse.”

“Go ahead,” the host urged.

And so she began:

“It doesn’t matter if my life is not complete…

You gave me a promise unknown, yet I believed…

Just tell me this, beloved—that I am yours.”

Her voice carried like a soft wind in the night. When the verse ended, she said, “This is my gift to all listeners. And if there’s time, please play Karna Khan’s song—‘I wade into the river without a boat…’”

As soon as her call ended, I shut the radio and dialed Anwar Kaka’s number.

A whisper came from the other end: “Be quiet, my son. Speak softly, or my father will wake.”

It was Zarmina.

“Zarmina,” I said firmly, “wait until morning. I’ll tell your father about your radio calls.”

She froze, then pleaded desperately: “Don’t tell him! I swear I won’t do it again. Forgive me just this once.”

I paused, then answered: “Alright. But only if you promise to fulfill one condition of mine.”

Her voice trembled. “Whatever you say, I’ll do. Just—please—don’t let my father know.”

"The story of Zarmina’s secret (Keyword) is more than illness—it is about trust and hope in Afghan village life (Keyword)."