The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

by Nadia Hashimi

  “Ah, what a brilliant solution! I am telling you, my brother, this girl is well suited for such a role. She walks and breathes like a man, my wife tells me.”

  “Then we will arrange it,” Hafizullah declared. “I will speak to the general so that we can make the entourage aware of the gift before you present her to King Habibullah. This is a historic visit to our town and you will be making a mark. You can expect this to bring you many returns, I believe.”

  Shekiba had heard enough. She walked back to the kitchen, her legs wobbly beneath her. Her head was spinning.

  The king? The palace?

  Words that were foreign to her.

  Shekiba, the half face. The girl-boy who walks like a man.

  Shekiba was not a whole anything, she realized.

  CHAPTER 16

  RAHIMA

  KHALA SHAIMA LIKED TO KEEP US HANGING. I wondered what would happen to Bibi Shekiba almost as much as I wondered what would happen to us. It seemed that we were both about to leave our homes.

  Padar-jan spent more time away from home in the following weeks. When he did return, he scowled and barked orders more. Even Parwin’s soft singing, which he usually secretly enjoyed, provoked him. Madar-jan tried to keep him placated with ready meals and a quiet home but he inevitably found another reason to explode.

  I spent more time at Agha Barakzai’s shop. It was my way of avoiding the guys without explaining what was happening. I worried that my mother was going to change me back into a girl and I wondered how Abdullah and Ashraf would react. I hated to be away from them, mostly Abdullah, but I was scared to be with them, too.

  I lay awake at night, thinking about Abdullah and remembering the day Madar-jan had caught us play-fighting. Until the moment she called my name, it had been thrilling. I tingled to think of Abdullah’s face over mine, his long legs trapping my hips under him, his hands pinning my wrists. And his grin. I blushed in the dark.

  I tried to make up to Madar-jan for what I had done. I tried to keep Padar-jan distracted from her, even if it meant him yelling at me. Even though I’d been relieved of housework when I became a bacha posh, I tried to help when I saw her washing clothes or beating the dust from the carpets.

  Shahla didn’t say more than a few words to me every day. She was still upset and could sense from Madar-jan’s mood that trouble was brewing. She was quiet around Padar-jan, bringing him tea or food and leaving the room before he could realize she was one of those young women he had kept home for too long.

  My grandmother stopped by more often. She was intrigued by the new wave of unrest in our home and wanted to see it for herself. Madar-jan tried to be as polite as she could.

  “Tell my son that I want to talk to him. When he gets home, make sure he comes to see me.”

  “Of course. What is it that you want to talk to him about?”

  “Is it any business of yours? Just tell him what I’ve asked.”

  Madar-jan knew what the topic was. Maybe this time her husband would be more interested in bringing another wife home.

  I listened in when Padar-jan went to see his mother. I pretended to be playing with a ball in the courtyard and slowly kicked it further and further until I was right outside my grandmother’s living room. I heard her shrill voice loud and clear. My father, mumbling at times, was more difficult to make out.

  “Bachem, it’s high time. You’ve given her plenty of opportunity to give you a son and she’s failed. Now, let’s bring a second wife for you so that you can finally expand this family.”

  “And where am I going to put her? We have one room for all the girls as it is. There’s no money to build another space behind our home or to buy something else in town. I can always find a new wife. It’s the space and money that are harder to come by.”

  “What about Abdul Khaliq? Hasn’t he promised to help you when you need?”

  Padar-jan shook his head.

  “The men are short on weapons, on supplies. There isn’t money to spare.”

  “Psht. The hell there isn’t money. I’ve heard what he does. I’ve heard from the people in town about his horses, his wives, all his children. He’s got plenty!”

  “Madar! Be careful what you say! He’s a powerful man and don’t be part of any loose talk about him. Do you understand me?”

  “I’m not the one starting this talk. There are lots of tongues flapping about him. That’s all I’m trying to tell you,” she said, annoyed to be silenced by her son.

  “Anyway, I’ll be making some changes at home soon and things will be easier on my pockets. It’s time I relieved myself of some of these girls.”

  “And how do you expect to do that?”

  “Just watch what Raisa does while I’m gone and I’ll find a way to take care of the rest.”

  Shahla and Madar-jan were right. Padar-jan was about to shake up our home.

  ELEVEN DAYS LATER, ABDUL KHALIQ SHOWED UP at our home with seven other men. They pulled up in two black SUVs, their tires leaving clouds of dust in the street. Abdullah saw the car and knew immediately who they belonged to. Most people in our town traveled on foot.

  It was my cousin Muneer who opened the front gate and pointed out our home. Not even my father was expecting him. Muneer watched openmouthed as Abdul Khaliq and his entourage walked by. Two men had black guns slung over their shoulders. Abdul Khaliq was a burly man in his late forties, judging by the lines around his eyes and the gray in his beard. He wore a white turban and a beige tunic over loose pants. An antenna stuck out from the pocket of his gray vest, another sign that this man was something other than common folk. He was the first person in our town to own a mobile phone. Few had access to any phone at all.

  We usually sent one of the men to the front gate to greet a visitor. People didn’t just barge in, since the women of the home could be wandering about the courtyard without their head coverings. But it was either Muneer’s stupidity or Abdul Khaliq’s presence that changed things from the usual routine. He and his men were in our courtyard, their eyes assessing the situation. I caught sight of them and recognized Abdul Khaliq from the bazaar. I darted inside to warn my mother and send my father out to meet his friend.

  “Padar-jan, Abdul Khaliq is here—with a lot of people.”

  My father sat up straight and pushed his newspaper aside. “What are you talking about? Where?”

  “Out there. In the courtyard. He’s got seven men with him. And guns.”

  My father’s brow furrowed. He got to his feet faster than usual.

  “Tell your mother to prepare something for our guests,” he said, and went outside to meet the warlord.

  Madar-jan heard us and stood in the kitchen looking disturbed. She shot a look at the doorway to our bedroom, where Shahla and Rohila were putting Sitara to sleep. Parwin was peeling onions at Madar-jan’s feet. She was the only one whose eyes didn’t sting and tear when the layers came off.

  “He’s going to want more than tea,” Parwin predicted without looking up.

  Madar-jan looked at Parwin almost as if she heard some prophesy in her daughter’s words. She bit her lip and took out some cups.

  “Bring these to them, Rahim-jan,” she said nervously.

  I took the tray and willed my hands not to shake. I could feel their eyes boring into me when I entered the room, their conversation suddenly pausing. The men had spread out, Abdul Khaliq sitting on the cushion across from my father, his fingers nimbly working a string of prayer beads as he leaned back. On either side of him sat older men, more gray in their beards than black. The armed men were closest to the door. I didn’t look at their faces and tried to keep my gaze off their weapons as well. Kneeling, I put a cup in front of each person and backed out of the room as quickly as I could to listen from the hallway. Madar-jan was doing the same.

  “Arif-jan, I’ve come here today to discuss an important and honorable matter with you. For that reason, I have brought my elders with me, as well as a few members of my family whom you have met before. I’m sure
you recognize my uncle’s sons, my father and my uncle. You have fought with me for years and I respect you for that. From one man to another, we both know that there are traditions in our culture.”

  “You honor me with your visit, sahib, and I have been proud to fight under your leadership. We’ve done great things for our people thanks to you.” I’d never heard Padar-jan speak in such a way with anyone. Abdul Khaliq unnerved him. “And I am honored to have your family in my humble home. Dearest uncles, I appreciate you traveling this far to be our guests.”

  The men nodded, acknowledging my father’s platitudes. Abdul Khaliq’s father cleared his throat and began to speak. His voice was raspy and he had a light lisp.

  “My son speaks highly of you, and of course, your family is well respected in this town. I’ve known your father for many years, Arif-jan. He is a good man. That is why I’m sure we will see eye to eye on this matter as well. As you know, my son is a man who takes pride in meeting his duties as a Muslim. And one of the duties that Allah has outlined for us is to build families and to provide for women and children.”

  I could feel my heart pounding. Madar-jan stood behind me, one hand on my shoulder and the other covering her mouth, as if she thought she might let out a scream otherwise.

  “Of course, dear uncle . . .” Padar’s voice trailed off; he was unsure what to say. Abdul Khaliq began to speak.

  “And you came to me recently talking of your concerns. That you have young women at home and not enough money with which to provide for them. I have been thinking about your situation and am here to offer a solution.”

  Abdul Khaliq’s father gave him a look. Let me do the talking, his eyes said.

  “We must often think of what is in everyone’s best interests. In this case, you have a young woman whom my son would like to honor as his wife. Our family is large and well respected, as you know. Your daughter would do well to join our family and a union between us would be cause for celebration. Of course, as a result, you would be better able to provide for your family as well.”

  “My daughter?”

  “Yes. If you give it some thought, I’m sure you’ll see it’s the wisest choice.”

  “But my eldest is—”

  “We are not here for your eldest daughter, Arif-jan. I’m speaking of your middle daughter. The bacha posh. My son has expressed an interest in her.”

  “The bacha posh . . .”

  “Yes. And do not be surprised. You have kept her as bacha posh beyond what anyone should accept. You are breaking tradition.”

  I turned around and looked at my mother, my face drained of color. Padar was silent. I knew he was wondering how Abdul Khaliq knew about me but word had way of traveling. I remembered the day in the bazaar, the way Abdul Khaliq had looked at me and the way he had smirked and nodded when the man next to him leaned in and whispered something in his ear.

  My mother’s fingers tightened as she wrapped her arms around me. She was shaking her head, willing her husband to refuse this man and praying he could do so in a way that wouldn’t offend him or his guns.

  “With all due respect, sir . . . it’s just that . . . well, she is a bacha posh . . . but I have two other daughters older than her. And as you said, we are people of tradition and usually the younger daughters are not given until the eldest . . . I just don’t think . . .”

  There was a long pause before Abdul Khaliq’s father began to speak again, slowly and deliberately.

  “You are right. It would be improper to give your middle daughter’s hand without the other two being wed as well.”

  For a second I could breathe. But it was only a second.

  “But this can be easily arranged. My cousins are here, Abdul Sharif and his brother Abdul Haidar. They are looking for wives as well. We can arrange for each of them to take one of your daughters. They are strong men, able-bodied, and will provide well for your girls, who are now young women and should not be kept idle at home. Let these men bring honor to your home and ease your troubles.”

  “Abdul Khaliq, dear uncles, you know I hold you in the highest regard, but . . . but this is a matter . . . well, tradition dictates that I should consult my family, as you have done. I cannot make such decisions without the presence of my father and our gray-haired family members.”

  Abdul Khaliq’s father nodded in understanding.

  “Reasonable. This is not a problem. We shall return in one week’s time. Kindly arrange to have your father and your elders here so that we may meet with them.”

  It may have sounded like a request but Padar-jan knew it was more of a command. They would not take no for an answer.

  As soon as the last man was out the door, Madar-jan ran up to my father.

  “Arif, what are you going to do? The girls are so young!”

  “It’s none of your business what I’m going to do! They’re my daughters and I’ll do what’s right for them. It’s not as if you’re capable of doing anything.”

  “Arif, please, Rahim’s only thirteen!”

  “And he’s right! She shouldn’t be a bacha posh any longer! She’s a young woman and it’s shameful to have her out on the streets and working with Agha Barakzai at this age. You’ve given no thought to her decency, have you? Do you know how this looks for my family’s name?”

  Madar-jan bit her tongue. If only my father knew . . .

  “You think you can come up with a better plan for this family? There is no money, Raisa! You’re thinking of nothing but yourself. And you’ve seen what happens to girls who stay in their fathers’ homes for too long. There is talk about them. There is scandal. Or worse! What will you do if some bandits come and take your daughters by force? This man, this family, they can provide for your daughters! They can give your daughters a respectable life!”

  Madar-jan searched for a way to argue back. But a lot of what her husband said was true. She was barely able to feed us with what he provided. Padar-jan’s brothers were in no better a situation, not to mention the two widows and their children.

  “Maybe I can ask my sister, Shaima, to be here when they return. She could reason with them.”

  “Khanum, if your insolent sister dares step foot in this house on that day, I swear to you I’ll cut her tongue out and send her hunched back rolling down the street!”

  Madar-jan shuddered to hear him talk about Khala Shaima in that way.

  “Abdul Khaliq is a powerful man and he’s in a position to improve our family’s lot. This is a matter I’ll discuss with my father. You should concern yourself only with fixing what you’ve done. It’s time to undo Rahim.”

  There was nothing more my mother could say to him. He’d been intimidated by Abdul Khaliq, and from what we’d overheard, it sounded like my father had planted the idea in Abdul Khaliq’s mind. I thought back to what Shahla had told me about their fight.

  He wants this, I realized. My father wants to marry us off.

  The thought sent a chill down my spine. I realized what my mother knew as well. Men could do what they wanted with women. There would be no stopping what Padar had set in motion.

  CHAPTER 17

  SHEKIBA

  KING HABIBULLAH HAD TAKEN THE THRONE in 1901, just as Shekiba turned eleven years old. This was two years before the cholera epidemic that claimed her family and half her village. That was all she knew about the man. She was a girl from a small village and knew nothing of the palace or life in the capital of Kabul.

  Having overheard Hafizullah’s brilliant plan for her, Shekiba became terrified. She had no reason to believe that life in the palace would be any better for her. The more powerful people were, the more harm they could do her. Shekiba sat in the night and chewed her lip, her fingers confirming the presence of the deed under her blanket.

  I have to get to the hakim. That’s my only chance.

  Shekiba did not know when the king would visit, but it would be soon. She had nothing to lose. She had a plan.

  Shekiba tucked the deed into her dress and crept out of
her room at first light. The azaan sounded, calling the town to prayer. She remembered the way from Azizullah’s house to the village center. There were a few shops there and surely someone would be able to direct her to the house of the hakim.

  She heard Azizullah’s snores and crept past his and Marjan’s room. Fortunately, he rarely woke for morning prayers, claiming he would make them up later in the afternoon. The children were still asleep.

  She slipped her burqa over her head and slowly pushed open the heavy gate. She was outside the courtyard. She paused for a moment, waiting to hear the sound of footsteps behind her. When she heard nothing, she took a deep breath, said a quick prayer and headed down the small dirt road. Shekiba walked quickly, trying not to look back at the house since that might draw more suspicion. But no one was out yet and the two donkeys outside didn’t even bray at the sight of her.

  Agha Sharifullah, the hakim. Shekiba hoped someone in town would be able, and willing, to direct her to him. She rehearsed her appeal in her mind for the thousandth time. She wondered what her mother would have thought of her plan.

  The sky was bright by the time she entered the village center and she passed by a family of five, the mother and children following behind their father, probably on their way to visit relatives. They looked at her oddly from across the road but said nothing. Shekiba exhaled when they were finally out of view.

  A few moments later, two men exited a house and began walking ahead of her. They looked back at her and commented to one another. Shekiba bowed her head and slowed her gait, wanting to put more distance between them. The younger man pointed at her and shook his head. The older man nodded and fingered the beads on his tasbeh.

  “Khanum, who are you?” he called out.

  Shekiba kept her gaze lowered and slowed her step even more.

  “Khanum, where are you going by yourself? Who are you?”

  Shekiba debated asking these men if they knew Hakim-sahib. She stopped, afraid to get any closer to them.