“Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes. Azizullah agrees that you should be allowed to pay respects to your grandmother for the holidays. You are to accompany him this Friday when he goes into the village for Jumaa prayers.”
Azizullah would take her there?
“Khanum Marjan, a world of thanks, but I do not wish to trouble your husband. I can find my own way and I will not bring him out of his way.”
Marjan looked at her incredulously. Shekiba never ceased to amaze her. The girl was quite handy and efficient in the house but when it came to common sense, she was seriously lacking.
“You expect to go wandering around the village by yourself? Have you lost your mind?”
Shekiba remained silent. Her mind raced.
“He will take you, as you requested, and join you to pay a visit to your family, although your uncles usually come by on the holidays. Azizullah will accompany you back home. You cannot expect to be wandering around the village like a street dog!”
Shekiba had done too much on her own while she lived with her father and before her uncles had claimed her. It had not occurred to her that she would have to be accompanied by someone. Her chest tightened with panic. She had not anticipated this stipulation.
“I . . . I had not meant to trouble . . .”
“Well, if you do not want to trouble him then you should not have raised the question.” Marjan walked out in exasperation. Shekiba’s bizarre questions were getting on her nerves.
Shekiba was left to wonder. She could tell Marjan she no longer wanted to go. It would seem strange but it could work. Or maybe once she was there she could ask permission to collect some belongings from her father’s home. But what about taking the deed to a hakim, the local official?
Maybe on another day. But even if she were granted another day, she would still need to be accompanied. And she had no idea where to find the hakim.
Shekiba would have to ponder that one. One bridge at a time, she thought.
Jumaa came and Shekiba steeled herself. It would take all her resolve to face her family again, especially her grandmother. But this was her only hope at getting her hands on the deed.
Marjan had instructed her to be ready in the morning, as Azizullah would not wait on her. He nodded in acknowledgment when he saw her waiting by the outside door, her burqa donned and her head bowed.
“Salaam,” she said quietly.
“Let’s go,” he said, then opened the door and led the way.
They did not speak on the way to the masjid. Shekiba walked a few steps behind but paid close attention to the road. She tried to memorize everything on the way there. The road was wide and dusty but lined with tall trees. There were a handful of homes scattered on either side, about two acres apart. The homes were uniformly surrounded by six-foot-high clay privacy walls. Shekiba could see rows of plantings in their yards and could spot the potatoes, carrots and onion plants even from this distance. The weather was dry and crops were suffering, which meant the families were probably suffering too.
A masjid, three shops and a bread baker constituted the village center. The storefronts were modest, with dull glass windows and handwritten signs. The bread baker didn’t really have a store. He sat against a wall of another shop and pulled hot, golden round breads from his tandoor, buried in the ground. The smell of fresh bread coming from the open circle in the ground made Shekiba’s mouth water. Two women stood waiting for their naan to bake. Shekiba recalled walking through the area when her uncle had taken her to Azizullah’s as a means of repaying his debt.
Shekiba, the gift, she thought miserably.
Azizullah took her past the masjid to a small home about a quarter of a kilometer away. He knocked at the front door.
“Salaam, Faizullah-jan,” he said with his hand on his chest.
“Agha Azizullah, how nice to see you! Are you on your way to Jumaa prayers?”
“Most certainly. But I had a favor to ask of you. This is my servant. I am taking her to visit her family after prayers have finished but I hoped I could trouble your wife to watch over her until then. I cannot leave her out in the street.”
“Oh, of course! I heard you had taken in Bobo Shahgul’s grandchild, the one with the half face. Have her stay in the courtyard. Not a good idea to leave an idle girl in the marketplace.”
Shekiba was directed to a stool with a view of the outhouse. She rested her head against the wall. The smell from the outhouse was overwhelming but she dared not move her seat, afraid to anger her unseen hostess.
She never met the man’s wife or children but she could hear them inside. Crying. Laughing. Running.
The sounds of a family.
I could leave now, Shekiba thought. What if I just opened the door and left? I can find my home from here. I could look for the deed and maybe even make it back for the end of prayers.
But Azizullah would probably come back and find her gone. Or the lady of the house would notice that the burqa had disappeared from the courtyard and tell him. And then what? Shekiba feared angering Azizullah mostly because she feared being sent back to Bobo Shahgul’s house. Nothing would be worse. At least, nothing she could think of.
Azizullah returned and thanked his friend for allowing Shekiba to stay. He gave her a nod and again they were on the dirt road, this time headed toward Bobo Shahgul’s house. When they arrived, Hameed answered the gate.
“Salaam!” Hameed called out.
“Salaam, bachem. Where is your father? Your uncles? I did not see them at Jumaa prayers. Did they not go?”
“No, sahib. No, and if you only knew what Bobo-jan told them for being so lazy.” Hameed never could keep anything to himself.
Azizullah chuckled. “Well, may God forgive their sins even if your bobo-jan will not. Tell them your kaka Azizullah and your cousin are paying a visit.”
Hameed led them into the courtyard and ran inside announcing their arrival at a volume that rivaled the mullah’s azaan, call to prayer.
“Bobo-jaaaaaaaan! Bobaaaaaaaaaa! Kaka Azizullah brought Shekiba baaaack!”
Shekiba panicked even more and turned to look at Azizullah’s face. Had he really brought her for a visit or was he returning her to this house? Maybe Marjan had complained about her? About the way she sat? About her odd questions? Her palms grew sweaty. The burqa was suffocating.
Azizullah’s attention had turned to a flowering bush. He was examining the petals and did not seem to notice Hameed’s announcement.
Kaka Freidun appeared in the doorway. He looked unsettled.
“Agha Azizullah! Welcome! How wonderful to see you.” Kaka Freidun extended his arms in greeting. The men hugged and exchanged customary pecks on the cheek. “How are you? How is your family?”
“Everyone is well, thank you. And you? Bobo Shahgul is in good health, I pray?”
“Ah, the usual aches and pains of age and unruly children,” he joked, shooting me a glaring look. He thinks I have done something wrong. Already, he would love to punish me.
“Your family is blessed to have her at this age. I still grieve my mother, God rest her soul, and it has already been two years since she passed.”
“May Allah forgive her and may heaven be her place of rest,” Freidun said. “Please come in. Join us for a cup of tea.”
They walked toward the house and Shekiba stood a few meters back. She felt out of place and shifted on her feet. She was within her family’s courtyard but she kept her burqa on. She preferred its cover for the time being.
“Azizullah-jan, we have not seen each other in some time. I hope that things are well at home.” Freidun’s statement was more of a question. He was trying to gauge the reason behind the visit.
“Yes, yes, things are well. And you? How is the family doing? How is the farm? Are your crops doing well this year?”
“As well as can be expected, with the lack of rain. The dry skies do not help but we are hoping to make at least enough to get by.”
“I have heard similar complaints from others
around town. And where is Bobo Shahgul? Is she resting?”
“She went to lie down after she finished her prayers,” Freidun said. “Did you want to speak to her?” Again, he looked anxious.
Kaka Zalmai and Kaka Sheeragha entered the courtyard, their expressions mirroring their brother’s. Azizullah stood and the men hugged and exchanged brief pleasantries.
Her uncles pretended not to notice her in the background. Shekiba knew she should go through the back door and find the women but she had little interest in doing so.
“Shekiba wanted to pay a visit to the family, since Eid is coming next week. She missed everyone a great deal and wanted to say hello, especially to Bobo Shahgul.”
Her uncles could not conceal their surprise. After a moment, Kaka Freidun nodded smugly.
“Ah, I see. I am not surprised. Bobo Shahgul is much loved by all her grandchildren.”
He thinks I regret how I left. He’s even dumber than his wife.
“Her grandmother is probably about to wake up from her rest and will surely be surprised to see her,” Freidun said.
Shekiba’s lips tightened with frustration.
“Well, you have come all this way. Let us go inside and share a cup of tea with you, dear friend. Surely Bobo Shahgul will be happy for the time with her dear granddaughter!” Freidun said glibly.
Zalmai and Sheeragha shared a smirk.
Shekiba felt like a puppet; her arms and legs were being directed by her uncle. What else could she do? Her every move was propelled by her desire to stay out of this house. If Azizullah saw her as an insolent girl, she risked being returned to her family.
Her legs obeyed and she walked slowly through the back door of the house. She passed by Khala Samina’s son, Ashraf, who was carrying a tray of steaming teacups and bowls of raisins and nuts. The cups rattled with his unbalanced nerves.
Shekiba walked into the hallway and paused. Should she really go to her grandmother? Would they check on her? She lifted her burqa and let it drape from her head.
Khala Samina appeared in the hallway. She was thin framed, more petite than her sisters-in-law.
“Salaam, Shekiba,” she said quietly. “She knows you’re here. She’s waiting for you.”
“Salaam,” Shekiba answered.
“Shekiba . . .”
She turned around to look at her aunt, who was scratching her forehead. She took a few steps toward Shekiba and lowered her voice.
“She is an ornery old lady. Don’t give her any reasons. She knows no other means of entertaining herself.”
Shekiba nodded, suddenly feeling her throat tighten. Samina’s voice was gentle, a tone rarely used toward Shekiba. She suddenly felt a gaping hole where her mother should have been.
“Thank you, Khala Samina.”
Samina closed her eyes briefly and nodded her head in acknowledgment before she resumed her work in the kitchen.
Shekiba walked a few more meters to Bobo Shahgul’s room. She could see through the gauzy curtain that her grandmother sat in a chair with her walking stick in her hand. Her bony fingers were wrapped tightly around the stick.
She knows I am here. I have no choice now.
Shekiba pulled the curtain aside and met her grandmother’s icy stare.
“Well, well. Look who has decided to disrupt our peace yet again.”
“Salaam.” Shekiba decided she would take Samina’s advice and try not to antagonize the old woman.
“Salaaaaam,” Bobo Shahgul said mockingly. “You stupid girl. How dare you come here? How dare you step foot in this house?”
Shekiba steeled herself. She had taken worse. All she had to do was resist the temptation to fire back.
You need to get to your house and get the deed. Do not forget why you came here. Do not let the old lady distract you.
“Eid mubarak, Bobo-jan.”
“As if I needed to see that face,” she replied, turning away in repulsion. “There is no Eid for a disrespectful creature like you—you dare to disrespect the grandmother who took you in even after you robbed her of her son.” She rose on her hobbled feet, fueled by rage.
“My father was a wise man who decided for himself.”
Shekiba saw it coming but hardly flinched.
Bobo Shahgul’s walking stick came crashing down on her shoulder.
She is weaker than a few months ago, Shekiba realized.
“Bobo-jan, how is your health? You’re looking a bit frail, God forbid.”
A second blow. She was trying harder.
“You beast! Get out of my house!”
“As you please,” Shekiba said, turned and walked out with her chin held high. She had said nothing. And nothing could have made Bobo Shahgul more irate.
Shekiba stopped by the kitchen. She wondered if Khala Samina had heard the conversation.
“Dear girl, there is something about you that makes that old lady crazy.”
She had heard.
“Khala Samina, I want to get a few things from my father’s house. I will not take long.” Shekiba looked in the direction of the living room. She could hear the men laughing.
Samina shook her head. “Do as you must—you are not a child. But understand that there are many people willing to make your life more difficult. It is up to you to find a way to make things easier for yourself.”
Shekiba nodded, wondering which one of them was more naïve.
“I won’t be long,” she said, lowered her burqa and headed out the back door.
She crossed the fields quickly, peering over her shoulder every thirty seconds or so to see if anyone was coming after her. After about twenty meters, she broke into a jog, hoping she didn’t attract attention. Her father’s home looked smaller than she remembered it. She felt her heart quicken as she neared the rusted gate.
For a second, she saw her father standing outside, his face to the sky as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. She heard her mother call out her brothers’ names. She saw Aqela’s songbird face in the front window, watching their father toil in the fields.
There should have been a word for what she felt, the way her stomach jumped with anticipation to be somewhere she missed so much, to be around people who missed her as much as she missed them. It was a feeling that started sweet and finished bitter, when she realized that she stood in the ashes of those perfect times, as short as they’d been.
No one had claimed the home yet but it looked as if someone were trying to fix it up. Cracks in the walls had been filled with clay. The splintered table outside had a new plank nailed to it. Inside, the two solid chairs were gone, as were the few blankets she’d left strewn about to make believe her parents and siblings still slept in the house with her.
Shekiba wondered which vulture had his eyes on the house but pushed the thought aside for now.
She needed to find the Qur’an. Her father’s books had not been touched. They still sat on the crooked shelf above where Padar-jan once slept. She looked out the window, half expecting to hear her uncles’ angry voices.
She blinked back tears and used a step stool to reach the top shelf. Her fingers reached over the ledge and sought blindly.
That’s it.
She pulled at a corner of fabric and the book slid toward her. She grabbed it with both hands and came down from the stool. The Qur’an was wrapped in a thin, emerald-green cloth embroidered with silver thread. This had been her mother’s dismol, or wedding cloth. Shekiba brushed the dust away and kissed the holy book, then touched it to her left and right eyes as her parents had taught her.
Why do we keep the Qur’an all the way up there, Madar-jan? It is so hard to reach it there!
Because nothing is above the Qur’an. This is how we show our respect for the word of Allah.
Shekiba unfolded the cloth and opened the first page.
Tariq. Munis. Shekiba. Aqela.
Beside each name, Padar-jan had penciled in the month and year of their birth.
Shekiba flipped through th
e pages, the corners frayed. The book opened to the second sura. She recognized the line that her father often quoted. She traced the calligraphy with her finger and heard his voice.
It means that we treasure many things in this world, but there is even more awaiting us in paradise.
The paper fell into her hands. Yellowed parchment with two columns of ornate signatures. She recognized her grandfather’s name. This was the deed!
Shekiba’s senses heightened now that she had what she’d come looking for. She took a quick look around and tucked the deed back into the pages of the Qur’an. It was time to get back to the house before her escapade incited too much anger. She covered the Qur’an again with her mother’s dismol and tucked it irreverently under her shirt.
God, forgive me, she thought.
As she exited her rusted front door, she could see Kaka Sheeragha across the field.
Lazy, she thought, looking at her uncle. The others would have come after me.
Sheeragha met her at the door.
“What were you doing in that house?” he demanded.
“Praying.” Shekiba slipped past him and returned to the living room, hoping Azizullah was ready to leave.
“Where have you been? Bobo Shahgul said she had a pleasant but short visit with you.” Azizullah took one last sip from his teacup. “We should be going. We have taken up enough of your time.”
“Time with you is time well spent,” Zalmai said graciously while he eyed Shekiba with suspicion. Sheeragha nodded in tacit agreement. He was not blessed with the social graces of his brothers.
“You are very kind. Please pass my regards along to the rest of the family. I am sure I will see you in the masjid for Eid prayers next week.”
“Yes, of course you will.”
“Absolutely.”
Shekiba followed Azizullah through the courtyard and into the street. Her uncles watched them leave, mumbling to each other.
They put on a good show, she thought, knowing they were wondering what spurred her return to the family home.
CHAPTER 14
RAHIMA
“OF COURSE HE HIT HER AGAIN! Why did you have to say something like that to him? You know how he is!” Shahla was folding the laundry in the courtyard, her eyes moving back and forth between the clothes and Sitara, who was drawing circles in the dirt with a rock.
The Pearl that Broke Its Shell Page 10