The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

by Nadia Hashimi

  KHALA SHAIMA WAS SITTING IN OUR LIVING ROOM when I came home that afternoon. Since my transformation, I had only seen her once, and that was before school had started.

  “There you are! I’ve been aging waiting for you, Rahim-jan,” she said, emphasizing the new twist on my name.

  “Salaam, Khala Shaima!” I was happy to see her but nervous to hear what she would say about my progress.

  “Come sit next to me and tell me exactly what you’ve been doing. Your mother has obviously failed in getting your sisters to school, despite the fact that we came up with a plan to make everyone, even your intoxicated father, satisfied.” She shot Madar-jan a look from the corner of her eye. Madar-jan sighed and moved Sitara to her left breast to nurse. She looked as if she’d already tired of this conversation.

  “I’ve been going to class and Moallim-sahib is giving me good marks, right, Madar-jan?” I wanted Khala Shaima to approve, especially since it had been her who had won me these new freedoms.

  “Yes, he’s been doing well.” A small smile. Shahla and Parwin were sitting in the living room, their fingers nimbly sifting through lentils and removing stones. Shahla had done twice as much as Parwin, who had arranged her lentils into piles of different shapes. Rohila had come down with a cold and was sleeping in the next room.

  “Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner to check up on you all. My health hasn’t been very good. I hate that it keeps me from doing what I want.”

  “Are you feeling better now, Khala-jan?” Shahla asked politely.

  “Yes, bachem, but for how long? My bones are tired and achy and the dust was so bad last month that each breath threw me into a hacking fit. Sometimes I coughed so hard I thought my intestines would fall right out of my body!”

  That was Khala Shaima’s way of explaining things.

  “But anyway, enough talk about old people. You know your sisters aren’t as lucky as you, Rahim.”

  “Shaima! I told you, once things have settled down, I’ll be able to send the girls back to school.”

  “Settled down? Settled down where? In this house or do you mean the whole country? And when do you think that will be, because as far as I can remember these children have been living under rocket fire for their entire lives! For God’s sake, I can’t even remember a day when this country wasn’t at war.”

  “I know that, Shaima-jan, but I don’t think you understand my situation. If their father forbids them from—”

  “Their father can eat shit.”

  “Shaima!”

  Shahla and Parwin both froze. That was more than we would have expected, even from Khala Shaima.

  “You’re so defensive about him! Open your eyes, Raisa! Can’t you see what he is?”

  “What he is, is my husband!” Madar-jan yelled, louder than we’d ever heard her before. “And you have to understand that! Please! Don’t you think I know better than anyone what he is or isn’t? What can I do?”

  “Your husband is an idiot. That’s why I worry about these girls being around him. Sit with us and you’ll be one of us. Sit with a pot and you’ll be black.”

  “Shaima, please!”

  Khala Shaima sighed and relented. “Fine. All right then, Raisa. But that’s why I keep coming here and harping after these girls. Somebody needs to oppose him.”

  “And who better than . . .”

  “That’s right,” Khala Shaima said with satisfaction. She turned her attention back to me. Shahla and Parwin resumed their work but at a slower pace, unnerved by Madar-jan’s yelling. “So, tell me then. Have you been adjusting well? No troubles with the boys?”

  “No, no trouble, Khala-jan. I’ve been playing soccer and I’m better than my cousin Muneer, I think.”

  “And no one’s said anything to you?”

  “No, Khala-jan.”

  “Good. And what kinds of things are you doing to help your mother?”

  “Rahim’s been going to the market for me. The store owners give him better prices than they do me.”

  “Don’t forget, Madar-jan. I’ve been working with Agha Barakzai and he’s been giving me a little money!”

  “I was getting to that, Rahim. You know Agha Barakzai has that little shop in the village. Well, he’s been in need of help with errands and I asked Rahim to stop by there and see if he could pick up a bit of work. Agha Barakzai can hardly see anymore with his terrible eyes.”

  “You’re a working boy! Now, that’s news!” Khala Shaima clapped her hands together.

  “Yup, I go all around town and no one bothers me. I can do anything! I even saw Padar’s friend Abdul Khaliq yesterday.”

  Madar-jan stiffened and looked at me.

  “Who did you see?”

  “Abdul Khaliq,” I repeated, quieter this time. Khala Shaima looked as displeased as my mother. I wondered if I’d done something wrong.

  “Did he say something to you?”

  “Not much. He bought me a snack and told me I was coming along nicely.”

  Madar-jan shot another look at Khala Shaima, who shook her head.

  “Raisa, that is not a man to have your children tagging along after. Not even Rahim!”

  “You’ll stay away from that man, Rahim,” Madar-jan said, warning me, her eyes wide and serious. “Do you understand me?”

  I nodded. My sisters fidgeted in the silence that followed.

  “Khala Shaima, could you tell us more about Bibi Shekiba?” Parwin asked.

  “Bibi Shekiba? Ah, you want to know more? Well, let me see if I can remember where I left off . . .”

  Just as Khala Shaima leaned back and closed her eyes to tell us more of the story, we heard the door open. My grandmother rarely came to visit us but Padar-jan had been gone two months and she felt compelled to check up on things, especially when she saw Khala Shaima hobble through the front gate. Khala Shaima treated my grandmother with respect, but it was measured and anything but warm. My grandmother, on the other hand, felt no obligation to put on airs with my aunt.

  “Salaam,” she called as she entered. My mother jumped to her feet, startling Sitara, who had nearly fallen asleep. She adjusted the top of her dress and walked to the door to greet her mother-in-law.

  Khala Shaima took her time but pushed herself up to greet her sister’s mother-in-law.

  “Salaam, Khala-jan. How is your health? Well, I hope.” She almost sounded sincere. My sisters and I kissed her hands. She sat down across from my mother and Shahla brought a cup of tea from the kitchen.

  “Oh, you’re here, Shaima-jan! How nice of you to drop by again so soon.”

  I could hear it in my grandmother’s voice: You come too often. Khala Shaima said nothing.

  “You’ve heard nothing from Arif-jan? Any word on when they’ll return?”

  Madar-jan shook her head. “No, Khala-jan. Nothing at all. I pray they will return soon.”

  “In the meantime, I’ve spoken with Mursal-jan and her family has agreed to give their daughter’s hand in marriage for Obaid.” Obaid was my father’s brother. This was surprising news.

  “Obaid-jan? Oh, I didn’t realize . . .”

  “Yes. So we’ll be preparing for her arrival. We will have their nikkah in two months’ time, inshallah. This will be a blessing for our family. A second wife will bring him more children and grow our family.”

  “They have five children, nam-e-khoda,” Madar-jan said softly.

  “Yes, but only two boys. Boys are blessings and Obaid wants more sons. Better to have more children than to try to change the ones you have. Anyway, I’ve made you aware. Fatima may call on you for help preparing a place for his new wife. This is happy news and we’ll all take part in it.”

  “Of course, Khala-jan. It’s wonderful news.” Madar-jan’s voice was soft. Khala Shaima watched the interaction with narrowed eyes.

  “Hopefully, there will be more of it in the future,” she said, nodding her head.

  My grandmother got back up and walked to the door.

  “Anyway, that’s a
ll for now. Shaima-jan, send my regards to the family, will you please? I guess you’ll be leaving soon, as it is getting late.”

  “You’re too kind, Khala-jan. You make me feel so welcomed here, it’s difficult to leave.”

  I saw my grandmother’s shoulders stiffen before she left and the way Madar-jan and Khala Shaima looked at each other. Khala Shaima shook her head. This meant bad news for our household.

  “Come, girls, let me tell you more about Bibi Shekiba. I’ll tell you how easily women pass from one place to another, from one home to another. What happens once, happens twice and then a third time . . .”

  CHAPTER 11

  SHEKIBA

  AZIZULLAH SAT IN THE LIVING ROOM with his brother, Hafizullah. There were two other men with them as well but Shekiba did not know their names and had never seen them before. They had white turbans on their heads and pale blue tunics and pantaloons. Hafizullah wore a brown vest over his tunic, his prayer beads hanging from the pocket.

  “Shekiba, Padar-jan wants the food to be ready in twenty minutes,” announced Haris. “He says they’re going to leave soon so it better not take too long.”

  Shekiba nodded nervously, knowing the rice would have to be a touch undercooked. She added more oil to the pot, hoping that the extra grease would soften the grains.

  Haris leaned over her shoulder and tried to snatch a piece of meat from the bowl next to Shekiba. Her right arm went up instinctively and snagged him by the wrist.

  “You know better, Haris. Not until after they’ve eaten.” Her tone was gentle but firm. Haris was by far her favorite of the children. He would sometimes sit with her when he had tired of his siblings. She didn’t mind his company. On the contrary, she enjoyed his chatter and the stories he would tell about his teacher.

  “Just one piece!” he pleaded.

  “If you have a piece, then your brothers will want some too when they see you licking the sauce off your fingers.”

  “No, I promise! I won’t tell them I had some! I’ll lick my fingers clean here before I go back out!” Haris was already an expert negotiator.

  “Fine then. But just one—”

  He had snatched the largest chunk before Shekiba could finish her sentence.

  “Haris!”

  He grinned, his cheeks lumpy with lamb. How lucky she was to live in a house that could afford to eat lamb! Shekiba sighed and pretended to be annoyed.

  “What are they talking about in there, anyway?” she asked.

  “Don’t you know? The king is coming!”

  “The king?” Shekiba asked. “Which king?”

  “Which king? King Habibullah, of course!”

  “Oh.” Shekiba had no idea who King Habibullah was. It had been years since her father had shown an interest in anything beyond their walls. “Is he coming here?”

  “Here? Are you crazy, Shekiba? He is going to Kaka Hafizullah’s house.”

  Azizullah’s brother had managed to secure himself a position as a friend of the monarchy. He served as a regional overseer and reported to the authorities in Kabul, the capital. For years, he had served as a loyal delegate and traveled frequently to the palace to meet with the king’s advisers. He was vying for royal attention in the hopes of becoming hakim to their province. With such a title came an attractive amount of power, and so Hafizullah often shared hearty meals and lavished compliments on anyone with any influence.

  Azizullah had no patience for such highbrow relations but he did enjoy the secondary benefits that came with having a strategically placed brother. People in the village showed Azizullah deference, hoping they could curry favor with Hafizullah. This was how influence trickled down from the monarchy into the most insignificant of homes in the countryside.

  And while Shekiba had no knowledge of such diplomatic matters, she too became enchanted by the prospect of the king paying a local visit. She imagined horses and regal clothing, guards at his side.

  She adjusted her head scarf and poured fresh cups of tea, hoping to distract their appetites for a few more minutes. She carried a tray into the living room and kept her head bowed, wanting to be as discreet as possible.

  “It is a huge honor. This is the opportunity I have been waiting for. Thanks be to Allah, I have called in many favors and secured the makings of a fine feast for the night. We will make qurbani; a goat will be slaughtered in the king’s good name. I am sparing no expense.”

  “How are you to pay for this? How many people will be with him? Surely, there will be at least a dozen pretentious mouths to feed!”

  “There is a price to pay for everything but it is a chance I could not let escape. Sharifullah has been hakim of this province for long enough. It is pure good fortune that he has traveled across the country now to attend the funeral of his cousin.”

  “Good fortune for you!” Azizullah laughed. “But not for his cousin!”

  “Forget about his cousin, dear brother. The point is that this is a chance for our family to reach the next level. That is what our father would have wanted to see, may Allah forgive him and keep him in peace. If I am made hakim, we will control the entire province! Imagine the life we would have.”

  “You would be an excellent hakim, certainly. And from what I have heard, many of the villages are displeased with Sharifullah’s rulings.”

  “The man is spineless. The kingdom would all but forget our province were it not for the crops our land produces every season. Sharifullah has done nothing for us! When Agha Sobrani and Agha Hamidi disputed that land by the river, it was his idiotic idea that they should each take half.”

  Shekiba listened as she gathered the empty teacups and brought the dish of nuts closer to the men.

  “Now, neither Sobrani nor Hamidi has any respect for him. They are equally dissatisfied with him. He should have given the land to Hamidi. His claim was reasonable and his family carries more clout than Sobrani’s. Better to have Hamidi’s full support and anger only Sobrani!”

  Irrefutable logic. Shekiba quietly crept out of the room. She had grown accustomed to Hafizullah’s animated speeches and found him entertaining in some way. At the same time, she was thankful that Allah hadn’t placed her in his custody, as she was certain he was a brute in his home.

  As soon as she left the room, she heard Hafizullah’s tone change. She stopped and tilted her ear toward the living room.

  “And how are things going with your new help? Shekiba-e-shola is fulfilling her duties around the house?”

  “Well enough,” Azizullah answered. “Marjan has not had many grievances about her.”

  “Hmmph. That family must be so relieved to have unloaded her. From what I have heard, Bobo Shahgul was heartbroken at her son’s passing. Could not bear to have his child in her home because she was a constant reminder of her dead son.”

  “You would have heard more than me. The girl does not speak of her family. Actually, she hardly speaks at all. She has that much sense.”

  “At least your wife doesn’t have to worry about your taking her as a second wife!” Hafizullah joked, slapping his hand on his thigh loudly.

  “No, she is not for marriage. She is able-bodied and does the work of a man. Sometimes it escapes us that she is, in fact, a girl. Her strength makes me marvel. I saw her just a few days ago carrying three pails of water and walking straight, as if it were no effort whatsoever. Her uncles told me she had been keeping up her father’s farm along with him.”

  “More useful than a mule. Good,” Hafizullah said. “Whatever happened to her father? I remember running into him just after his children were taken in the cholera wave. He looked terrible. Too sensitive, that man was.”

  “His brother told me that he had not been feeling well in the last few months. Agha Freidun told me they had a conversation and he knew his time was coming. He made arrangements for his daughter to live with Bobo Shahgul and distributed his land, his tools and his animals among his brothers.”

  Shekiba’s eyes widened.

  A lie! My father ha
d no such conversation!

  He had not seen his brothers after her mother died. She wondered if this story was Kaka Freidun’s idea or Bobo Shahgul’s. Her family was swooping in to pick up any scraps her father had left behind.

  That land should be mine. My grandfather gave it to my father. My father wanted nothing to do with his family. I should be the owner of that land.

  Shekiba wondered where the deed was. The deed was a simple document signed by her grandfather, her father, a few distant relatives and a village elder to confirm the transaction. Surely her uncles must have been looking for it when they dumped the contents of the house outside.

  “Shekiba? What are you doing here?”

  Teacups rattled in Shekiba’s startled hands. Marjan had come up behind a very distracted Shekiba. She looked puzzled to see her frozen a few feet away from the living room.

  “I just . . . chai . . . ,” she mumbled, and headed directly for the kitchen, her head bowed to conceal her hurt eyes.

  The scent of cumin and garlic filled the room. Azizullah and his brother shared their meal, tearing off chunks of flatbread and picking up morsels of rice and meat. Shekiba wondered if any would be left for the rest of the family. Meat was hard to come by, even in this household, and it seemed that the men were going to finish the week’s stock in one sitting.

  Her mind began to wander as she dried the pots. What would happen if she were to try to claim that land? The thought almost made her laugh. Imagine that. A young woman trying to claim her father’s land, snatching it from her uncles’ greedy claws. She tried to imagine taking the deed to the local judge. What would he say? Most likely he would kick her out. Call her insane. Maybe even send her back to her family.

  But what if he didn’t? What if he listened to her? Agreed with her? Maybe he would think it was her right to have her father’s land.

  Marjan was in the kitchen with her. She was sifting through the rice for any small stones.

  “Khanum Marjan?” Shekiba said meekly.

  “Yes?” Marjan paused and looked up. Shekiba spoke so rarely, one had to take notice.