The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

by Nadia Hashimi

  “Khanum, this is very wrong! Whoever you are, you should not be wandering around alone,” he scolded. “What family are you from?”

  Shekiba felt her tongue loosen.

  “I am from Agha Azizullah’s home,” she said shakily.

  “Agha Azizullah? But you are not Khanum Marjan. Who are you?” called out the older man.

  “Khanum Marjan is not well,” she lied. “I have been sent to bring her medicine.”

  “Sent out for medicine? Well, this is just absurd.” The younger man turned to his counterpart. “He is a dear friend of mine but I can’t imagine what Agha Azizullah was thinking.”

  “This is truly bizarre,” he said, shaking his head. And then he made a decision. “Follow us into town. I’ll speak with Azizullah later.”

  Shekiba nodded and walked about five meters behind them, now doubly panicked. Surely, by now, Marjan had discovered her absence and she had probably shared the news with Azizullah. Would they come looking for her? Although it seemed this man believed her story, he would surely report back to Azizullah. Although Azizullah already had plans to get rid of her, he could do much worse if he were angered and shamed by Shekiba.

  They led her to the village’s dry-goods store owner, who doubled as the local apothecary. She entered behind the older man.

  “Salaam, Faizullah-jan.”

  “Wa-alaikum as-salaam, Muneer-jan. How are you?”

  So it is Muneer who will report back to Azizullah.

  They exchanged pleasantries before Muneer addressed Shekiba’s presence.

  “Azizullah has sent this girl to bring medicine for his wife. I found her walking about in the streets alone. Can you imagine? I think the man has lost his mind.”

  Faizullah shook his head.

  “No doubt he is distracted by King Habibullah’s visit. It is just two days from now and I’m sure his brother has him running in circles.”

  Two days from now?

  “What illness does she have?”

  Shekiba nodded yes or no arbitrarily as he rattled off a few symptoms. She left with a small bottle of blended herbs and Faizullah made a note of the purchase in his records.

  Azizullah is going to kill me, Shekiba suddenly realized. She had gone too far.

  “Excuse me, sahib,” she said outside. There was no reason to stop now. “I must take a paper to Hakim-sahib.”

  “What? What sort of paper?”

  “I was instructed to discuss this only with Hakim-sahib.”

  The younger man looked indignant.

  “Padar, this is ridiculous!” he said.

  “It is indeed!” said his father. Shekiba waited nervously.

  But they pointed her toward Hakim-sahib’s house, which, as Shekiba had prayed, was within the village’s central area. They were fed up with her and decided to let her find her own way. Azizullah could clean up his own mess.

  A young boy answered the gate and Shekiba asked to speak to Hakim-sahib. The boy gave her a curious look before running back into the courtyard. A moment later, a puzzled man with a grayed beard appeared at the door. He peered out from behind the half-open door.

  “Please, esteemed Hakim-sahib, I have come to you with a most serious request.”

  “You? Who are you and what are you doing here? Is there no one with you?”

  “No, sahib. But I have a paper that I need to show you.”

  “Who are you? Who is your husband?”

  “I have no husband.”

  “Who is your father?” He still had not fully opened the door, uninterested in inviting this strange lone girl into his courtyard.

  “Sahib, this paper is from my father. His name was Ismail Bardari.”

  “Ismail? Ismail Bardari?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are his daughter? You are the one who . . .”

  “Yes, I am. Please, sahib, I have the deed to my father’s land.”

  It all came in one breath. And then she heard her name.

  “Shekiba!”

  Shekiba almost did not recognize Azizullah. She whipped around to see him walking quickly toward Hakim-sahib’s house. Hakim-sahib pushed the door wide open. Shekiba turned to him and spoke quickly. Azizullah was a hundred meters away. Her words came fast and furious.

  “Please, sahib, I have the deed to my father’s land and I am his only surviving child. I want to claim my inheritance. That land should belong to me and my uncles are taking it without right.”

  Hakim’s eyes widened. “You want what? Azizullah-jan, may Allah grant you a long life,” he called out.

  Shekiba could not take much hope from his exasperated tone. She pulled the paper from under her burqa.

  “It is my land and it is my right. Please, sahib, just look at the deed and you will see—”

  Hakim-sahib took the paper from her hand and glanced at it. His eyes returned to fast-approaching Azizullah.

  “Please, Hakim-sahib, I have nothing else. I have no one else. This land is my only—”

  A blow to the side of her head. Shekiba reeled.

  “Goddamn you, girl!” A second blow knocked Shekiba off her feet.

  She lay on her side, curled. Her hands instinctively rose to cover her head beneath the burqa. She looked at Hakim-sahib. He was shaking his head.

  “Azizullah-jan, what is going on with this girl?”

  “Hakim-sahib, those damned Bardari brothers gave this as repayment for their debt and never have I been so swindled in my life!” he screamed, pointing at Shekiba. “We have fed her and housed her and look at how she treats us!” A kick to her flank. Shekiba yelped. “What are you doing? What kind of girl sneaks out of a house? Have you no shame?”

  “What is this talk of a deed?” the hakim said.

  “What deed?”

  “This girl is here to claim her father’s land,” Hakim explained.

  “To claim what? Is there no end to this girl’s stupidity?” He turned to Shekiba and landed another kick into her side.

  The pain threw her into a rage.

  “I am only here to claim what is rightfully mine! I am my father’s daughter and that land should belong to me! My father would never have chosen his brothers over me! He never did!”

  “A family of fools!” Azizullah shouted. He threw his arms into the air in exasperation.

  The hakim sighed heavily and clucked his tongue.

  “Girl, you know nothing of tradition,” he said, and tore the deed into pieces.

  CHAPTER 18

  RAHIMA

  TRADITION HADN’T LOST IMPORTANCE between Bibi Shekiba’s time and now.

  Our home was tense all week. Madar-jan’s hands trembled. She dropped forks and food while her mind wandered and worried. I caught her watching me and my sisters. Shahla shook her head and Parwin made comments that made Madar-jan burst into tears.

  “The pigeons look sad today. As if their friends all flew away and now they have no one to talk to.” Parwin looked up from her paper. She’d sketched five birds, each flying off in a different direction.

  My mother took one look at the drawing, covered her mouth with her hand and went to talk to Padar-jan. We heard yelling and the sound of glass breaking. She returned to us, her lip quivering and a dustpan full of glass shards in her hands.

  My father spoke with our grandfather and summoned my uncles to join us at the house. Kaka Haseeb, Jamaal and Fareed showed up along with Boba-jan. They looked solemn. I wondered what Padar-jan had told them.

  As promised, Abdul Khaliq’s family returned in the afternoon. My sisters and I had Sitara look out the window and tell us what she saw.

  “Lots of people,” she said.

  Madar-jan came back into the room with us, leaving the discussion to the patriarchs of our compound. She had tried several times to talk to my father but to no avail. He was not interested in hearing her. She stood in our doorway and craned her neck to hear down the hall. In our small home, we could hear every word of the conversation.

  “Thank you, agh
a-sahib, for coming today and joining your sons for this important discussion. Our family takes these matters very seriously and we come to you with the best of intentions. This is an issue of honor and family. We have known each other for many years. Our fathers were born and buried in the same soil. We are nearly kin,” Abdul Khaliq’s father said.

  “I have a great deal of respect for your family and always have,” Boba-jan said simply. It was up to the suitors to do the talking.

  “And it is for this reason that we have come to this home. We believe that your granddaughter would make an excellent match for my son Abdul Khaliq, whom this village has come to respect and appreciate for defending our people and our homes for years.”

  “Our people owe him a debt of gratitude. He has shown great bravery.”

  “Then you will agree that he would be an honorable husband for your granddaughter.”

  “Well,” Boba-jan said slowly. I could picture my father’s eyes on my grandfather, hoping he would stick to what they had rehearsed. “With the highest respect, Agha Khaliq . . . we have concerns, which I believe my son Arif expressed to you last week. I understand you are speaking of Rahim. We agree that he . . . she has been kept as a bacha posh for too long and should be returned to what Allah created. But, still, there are two sisters before her, and as you know tradition dictates that—”

  “This is understood and we have already discussed your other two granddaughters. We have here again my nephews Abdul Sharif and Abdul Haidar. Each of them will be honored to take a daughter as a wife. Even better to further strengthen the ties between our families.”

  “Hmm,” Boba-jan said, considering the proposal. My father cleared his throat.

  “My second daughter—you probably do not know this, but she was born with a lame leg. She limps . . .”

  “No matter. She will not be a first wife anyway. I’ve seen lame-legged women bear children. You should be happy then, anyway. Unlikely you would otherwise marry her off.”

  “Yes, unlikely . . .”

  Three daughters married off at once would be a huge burden lifted from my father’s inept shoulders. While his mind toyed with the idea, my uncle Fareed spoke.

  “Abdul Khaliq Khan, sahib, you honor us with your proposals but . . . but my family also has traditions. I don’t mean to insult you but there is something that has been passed down through generations . . .”

  “I can respect tradition. What is it?” I could hear annoyance in his voice. He was losing patience with our family, having had to make a second trip. He’d acquired his last wife with much less fuss.

  “Well, my family traditionally asks for a large bride price for our daughters and I am embarrassed to bring up matters of money with a man such as yourself, but it is something that I cannot brush under the carpet. This goes back generations and to break from what our ancestors . . .”

  My father must have been nervous. The bride price was the critical part he and his brothers had discussed.

  I could tell by my mother’s face that my uncle was lying. She was trying to read through the wall if Abdul Khaliq was buying his story.

  “What is it?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How much is the bride price?”

  “It’s—as I’ve said, I’m embarrassed to be discussing this but it’s quite hefty. It’s . . . it’s one million afghanis,” he said finally. My mother and I nearly choked at the amount. We’d never heard of such a large figure!

  “One million afghanis? I see,” he said, and turned to one of the men with a gun slung over his shoulder. “Bahram,” he said simply. We heard the door open and close. The room was silent until Bahram returned. Abdul Khaliq was tired of cajoling.

  We heard a soft thump. Abdul Khaliq began speaking again. “That should cover it,” he said simply. “You’ll have plenty there to cover the bride price of each of your three daughters. Of course, as family, we will share with you some of the products of the land to the north. Perhaps that would be of interest to you.” I knew my father’s eyes were bulging at the promise of opium. My mother shook her head.

  “Now we need only arrange the nikkah date for these three unions. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I . . . I suppose . . . Abdul Khaliq, sahib, what about a wedding? A celebration?” Usually there was something. Guests, food, music.

  “I don’t think that’s really necessary. My cousins and I, we’ve all had weddings. The most important thing is to have the marriage done properly with a mullah. For that, I’ll bring my friend Haji-sahib.” He waved his hand in the direction of the bag. “Now that this matter has been settled, I’m sure you agree that the nikkah is the most important part.”

  My father, my grandfather and my uncles were silent. My mother and I felt our stomachs drop, knowing they could not resist what Abdul Khaliq was offering—more money than our family had ever seen and the promise of a steady opium supply. I covered my face with my hands and pressed my head against the wall.

  I slipped out of Madar-jan’s clutching fingers and left her standing there, stunned. Three daughters. Turning me into a boy hadn’t protected me at all. In fact, it had put me right in front of this warlord who now demanded my hand in marriage. Barely a teenager, I was to be wed to this gray-haired fighter with bags of money and armed men to do his bidding.

  My sisters looked at me, already crying. Shahla was trembling.

  “It’s terrible, Shahla!” I sobbed. “I’m so sorry, I’m so very sorry! It’s so awful!”

  “They’re really agreeing to it?”

  “It’s . . . it’s just like you said . . . there’s too many . . . they’re giving Padar so much money . . .”

  I couldn’t bring myself to form the words. Shahla understood though. I saw her eyes well up and her lip stiffen before she turned her back to me. She was angry.

  “God help us,” she said.

  I wanted to be outside with Abdullah. I wished I could be chasing stray dogs with him or kicking a ball down the street. I wondered what he would say if he knew I was to be married.

  That night, I dreamed of Abdul Khaliq. He had come for me. He towered over me with a stick in his hand, laughing. He was pulling me by the arm. He was strong and I couldn’t get away. The streets were empty but as I walked past the houses, gates opened one by one. My mother. Khala Shaima. Shahla. Bibi Shekiba. Abdullah. Each one stood in a doorway and watched me walk by; they all shook their heads.

  I looked at their faces. They were sad.

  “Why aren’t you helping me?” I cried. “Don’t you see what’s happening? Please, can’t you do something? Madar-jan! Khala Shaima! Bibi-jan! I’m sorry! Shahla, I’m sorry!”

  “Allah has chosen this as your naseeb,” they each called out in turn. “This is your naseeb, Rahima.”

  CHAPTER 19

  RAHIMA

  ABDUL KHALIQ KHAN WAS A CLEVER MAN. A clever man with many guns. He knew all the right buttons to push. My father had never seen so much money and would choose opium over food even if he hadn’t eaten for days. What good were his daughters anyway?

  We were young but not that young. Shahla was fifteen years old, Parwin was fourteen and I was thirteen. We were flower buds that had just started to open. It was time for us to be taken to our new homes, just like Bibi Shekiba.

  My father had come into our room and ordered my mother to make a shirnee, something sweet he could put before the guests to show our family agreed to the arrangement. We didn’t have much so Madar-jan gave him a small bowl of sugar, wet with tears, which he took and laid before Abdul Khaliq’s father. The men embraced each other in congratulations. We girls huddled around my mother, looking to each other for comfort.

  The arrangements moved quickly. Abdul Sharif was a rugged-looking man in his thirties and his brother Abdul Haidar was probably a few years older. Abdul Sharif had one other wife at home but was content to take on a second, especially since the bride price had been covered by his cousin. Abdul Haidar already had two wives at home. Parwin would be his thi
rd.

  Come back in two weeks for the nikkah, Padar-jan had said, his eyes darting back and forth from the guests to the black bag on the floor.

  SHAHLA WAS SO ANGRY that she did not speak to me for four days.

  I tried to talk to her but she wouldn’t look at me.

  “Why did you have to make Padar so angry? I don’t want to go with that man! Parwin doesn’t want this either! We were fine! Leave me alone. Go and be with Abdullah now!”

  I was stunned. My sister was right, though. I had pushed the situation without thinking about anyone else. I wanted to be allowed to wrestle with Abdullah, to walk to school with him and feel his arm around my shoulder. This was my doing.

  “I’m sorry, Shahla. I’m really sorry! I didn’t mean for any of this to happen! Please believe me!”

  Shahla wiped her cheeks and blew her nose.

  Parwin watched us, her mouth in a tight pout.

  “One by one, the birds flew off . . . ,” she said quietly. I looked at her, her left leg tucked under her and her right stretched before her. I wondered how her husband would treat a wife with a lame leg. I could see in Shahla’s eyes, she was thinking the same thing.

  Shahla blamed me. If I hadn’t pushed Padar-jan that day, then he and Madar-jan would not have had that argument. And we would not have been betrothed to Abdul Khaliq’s family.

  I wondered if it would have made a difference. I wondered if one small difference in the sequence of events would have altered the paths we ended up on. If I hadn’t let Abdullah, sweet, strong Abdullah, pin me down in the street for my mother to see, we wouldn’t have argued. I would have eaten dinner with the family. My father would have gone on smoking his own paltry opium supply and he would not have thought to complain to Abdul Khaliq that he needed to marry his daughters off.

  Maybe I could have stayed a boy, running alongside Abdullah, making faces behind Moallim-sahib’s back and having my father ruffle my hair when I walked by. As if he wanted me around.

  But that wasn’t my naseeb.

  “It’s all in Allah’s hands, my girls. God has a plan for you. Whatever is in your naseeb will happen,” my mother had sobbed.