I wondered if Allah hadn’t meant for us to choose our naseeb.
With my father standing over her shoulder, my mother reluctantly made three baskets of shirnee. She covered a cone-shaped block of sugar and loose candies from Agha Barakzai’s shop with a layer of tulle she’d purchased with some of the bride price. She cut swatches from her nicest dress and edged the sides with some lace she’d been given as a gift. Three large squares, one for each basket. These were our dismols, as important as the sweets. My father nodded in approval. My mother avoided his eyes. I looked at them and wondered if that was how it would be for each of us with our husbands. Or if they would be more like Kaka Jameel, who never seemed to raise his voice and whose wife smiled more than any woman in our family.
I wondered why they were different.
Padar hardly noticed what was happening at home. He didn’t even notice that Madar-jan slept in our room with us, instead of at his side. He was busy counting bills and smoking opium at least twice a day. Abdul Khaliq had made good on his promise and my father was enjoying his end of the bargain.
“I’ve brought home a chicken, Raisa! Make sure you send some to my mother, and not just the bones, mind you! And if the meat is dry and tough like last time, you’ll have no more tomorrows.”
My mother hadn’t eaten more than a couple of bites since the suitors had left and her eyes looked heavy. She was civil with my father, afraid to rile his anger and risk losing her youngest daughters too.
In the meantime, Madar-jan had to undo what she had done to me. She gave me one of Parwin’s dresses and a chador to hide my boyish hair. She gave my pants and tunics to my uncle’s wife for her boys.
“You are Rahima. You are a girl and you need to remember to carry yourself like one. Watch how you walk and how you sit. Don’t look people, men, in the eye and keep your voice low.” She looked like she wanted to say more but stopped short, her voice breaking.
My father looked at me as if he saw a new person. No longer his son, I was someone he preferred to ignore. After all, I wouldn’t be his for much longer.
I LINGERED AROUND SHAHLA, brought her food and helped with her share of the chores. I regretted the way things had happened and wanted her to know how sorry I was that I’d pushed her into Abdul Sharif’s home. These things I told her while she stared off. But Shahla was too kind to stay angry long. And we didn’t have long.
“Maybe we’ll be able to see each other. I mean, they’re all part of the same family. Maybe it will be like here and we can see each other every day—you, me and Parwin.”
“I hope so, Shahla.”
My sister’s round eyes looked pensive. I suddenly realized how much she resembled our mother and felt the urge to sidle up next to her. I felt better with her shoulder touching mine.
“Shahla?”
“Hm?”
“Do you think . . . do you think it will be terrible?” I asked, my voice hushed so Madar-jan and Parwin wouldn’t hear.
Shahla looked at me, then at the ground. She didn’t answer.
KHALA SHAIMA CAME OVER. She’d heard rumblings through the town that Abdul Khaliq and his clan had paid our family two visits. She figured my father was up to something. Her knuckles whitened when Madar-jan told her, sobbing, that her three eldest daughters were to be wed next week.
“He’s really done it. The ass made himself quite a deal, I’m sure.”
“What was I to do, Shaima, with a room full of gray-haired men? And he is their father. How could I have stopped anything?”
“Every man is king of his own beard,” she said, shaking her head. “Did you try to talk to him?”
Madar-jan just looked at her sister. Khala Shaima nodded in understanding.
“A council of asses. That’s what you had gathered here. Just look at these girls!”
“Shaima! What am I supposed to do? Clearly, this is what Allah has chosen as their naseeb—”
“Oh, the hell with naseeb! Naseeb is what people blame for everything they can’t fix.”
I wondered if Khala Shaima was right.
“Since you know so much, tell me what you would have done!” Madar-jan cried in exasperation.
“I would have insisted that I be present. And I would have told Abdul Khaliq’s family that the girls were not yet of age for marriage!”
“A lot of good that would have done. You know who we’re dealing with. It’s not some peasant from the streets. It’s Abdul Khaliq Khan, the warlord. His bodyguards sat in our living room with machine guns. And Arif agrees with the plan. Do you honestly think they would have listened to anything I had to say?”
“You are their mother.”
“And that’s all I am,” Madar-jan said sadly. Her voice grew quiet. I’m sure she didn’t think any of us could hear them. “There is only one thing I could think of doing.”
“What is that?”
Madar-jan looked down, her voice lowered.
“A death in the family would mean there could be no wedding for at least a year.”
“A death? Raisa, what in the hell are you talking about?”
“It happens all the time, Shaima. You and I have both heard stories. Remember Manizha from the other side of the village?”
“Raisa, you’ve lost your mind! Just think about what you’re saying! You think setting yourself on fire is going to solve any problems? You think orphaned girls are better off than married ones? And what about the little ones? What do you think they’ll do without their mother? For God’s sake, look at your in-laws! You’ve got two widows in this compound and your brothers-in-law are eyeing them already.”
My heart pounded so loudly I was certain they could hear it.
“I just don’t know what else to do, Shaima!”
“You have to find a way to turn them down. To make Arif turn them down.”
“Easier said than done, Shaima! Why don’t you come for the nikkah? Bring your big mouth and I’ll see what you do then.”
“I will be here, Raisa. Don’t think I won’t.”
Madar-jan looked exhausted. She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes; the shadows under them had darkened since yesterday.
We gathered around Khala Shaima.
“My girls, let me tell you a little more about Bibi Shekiba. As much as I hate to think it, her story is your story.” She sighed and shook her head. “I suppose we all carry the story of our ancestors in us. Where did we leave off?”
CHAPTER 20
SHEKIBA
TWO DAYS PASSED BEFORE SHEKIBA COULD STAND. Her lip was swollen and scabbed, her legs and back bore multiple bruises and each breath yanked her ribs in different directions.
It wasn’t her naseeb to claim her father’s land. Instead, Azizullah had dragged her back to the house and beaten her for an hour. Every time his strikes slowed, he would yell and huff about the humiliation she had caused him. His momentum would pick up again and he’d toss her left and right with each blow.
Marjan had watched from the doorway, shaking her head. She had one hand over her eyes and when she could watch no more turned her back and left. Shekiba did not notice. She had let her mind drift long ago.
Marjan came to her three times a day and brought her tea and bread. She would prop Shekiba up and dribble tea into her mouth with small lumps of wet bread. She rubbed an ointment on Shekiba’s back and on her cut lip.
“Stupid girl. I warned you not to bring up such matters. Now look what you’ve done to yourself,” she muttered over and over again.
Shekiba wished Azizullah would have killed her. She wondered why he hadn’t.
She did not see him, but she could hear his voice. His mood was sour and the children avoided him. Marjan could not.
“Make sure she’s up and ready today. No excuses.”
“She is weak but I will see what she can—”
“Weak? If she’s so weak, what was she doing walking through town, following Muneer and his son around? Why did I find her at Hakim’s front door? She’s
a liar and the sooner we rid ourselves of her, the better. No excuses. She will be up and ready today!”
Shekiba heard the words and the situation began to register. Today was the day King Habibullah would pay a visit to Hafizullah. Today was the day she would be gifted again.
Azizullah left early in the morning and Marjan huffed for an hour before coming to Shekiba.
“Come on. Time to get washed up.” Shekiba was lifted to her feet by a woman half her height but twice her width. Marjan guided her to the washroom and let her slide onto the floor. “You stupid girl. You’ve made more work for me! God knows you won’t last at the palace if you pull tricks like this.”
“I only wanted what should be mine. You would have done the same,” Shekiba said flatly.
“No, I would not have! You think you’re the only girl who should have inherited land? My brothers divided our land and not one square inch of it was deemed mine. That’s how things are! You accept it or you die. It’s that simple.”
“Then I should die.”
“Maybe so, but not today. Now get undressed so you can take a decent bath.”
AZIZULLAH RETURNED IN THE EVENING, his mood much improved.
“What a day it’s been! Hafizullah outdid himself! Never have I seen so much food. I even met with some of the king’s advisers. Good people with a great deal of influence. I think this visit will bring good fortune to our family and our town. We have put ourselves under King Habibullah’s nose and he will surely remember how hospitably he has been treated here.”
“Did you speak to the king too?”
“Of course I did! What kind of question is that? He’s a wise man—this I could see right away. But they’ll be leaving at first light and I think the girl should be presented tonight, over dinner, so that everyone can see what a gift we have made to the king! We will make our mark while Hafizullah makes his. Bring the girl! I do not want to sit here and chatter with you now. I want to get back before dinner.”
“The girl is ready,” Marjan said, and went to bring her. She found Shekiba sitting against the cold wall, her legs tucked under her. “Get up, Shekiba. It’s time.”
She looked at Marjan blankly. After a moment, she rose, ignoring the pain shooting through her ribs. Marjan led her by the elbow to the living room. She stopped short in the hallway.
“Shekiba, listen to me. You are a girl without mother or father, without brothers or uncles to look after you. Obey the word of God and let Him look after you. Bring your head out of the sky and understand your place in this world.”
“I have no place in this world, Khanum Marjan.”
Marjan felt a chill run through her spine. Shekiba’s words were cold, resolute. She wondered if this half-crazed girl had finally gone completely mad. Zarmina’s warnings echoed in her mind and she decided to keep her mouth shut. If Shekiba was going into a frenzy, she didn’t want to invite her wrath.
Azizullah was standing at the door to the courtyard, putting a green and blue vest on over his tunic. His face and voice were stern.
“If this girl has any sense in her at all, she will give me no trouble tonight. And if she dares to walk with even the slightest limp, I’ll take both her legs off.”
The warning was issued. Marjan bit her lip and handed Shekiba her burqa. Shekiba slipped it over her head and followed behind her master with a resigned step.
EVERY FOOTSTEP JOLTED HER BRUISES AND WELTS. Shekiba kept pace, though, too hurt to risk more punishment. Within twenty minutes, they approached a home with horses and armed soldiers outside. The horses were tall and muscular; their tails flicked side to side casually. But what caught Shekiba’s eye was what stood behind them. For the first time in her life, Shekiba saw a carriage. Four large wheels, a cushioned seat and handsome carvings on the sides.
The king, she realized.
They entered the front gate and walked into a courtyard nearly twice the size of Azizullah’s. Shekiba could not help but look around. There were benches and several bushes with striking purple flowers. From the living room came the sound of men laughing loudly.
She walked around to the back of the house to enter into the kitchen area.
“Stay outside, in the back. Behave yourself or I’ll let the soldiers straighten you out.”
Azizullah went in through the living room door and rejoined the gathering. Shekiba closed her eyes and tried to eavesdrop on their conversation. The sky grew dim before she heard something that actually pertained to her.
“We will be leaving in the morning to head back to Kabul. The road ahead of us is long but we hope to reach home by nightfall.”
“Amir-sahib, you and your esteemed generals have honored us with your visit to our humble village. We wish for many more visits in the future.”
“With the roads project, travel will become easier. We anticipate that your village will be more involved in the agriculture projects that have begun. Amir-sahib has a new team of engineers that are looking at our current situation.”
“Anything that we can do here to assist you, we are at your service. I was born and raised in this village, as was my dear brother, Azizullah. Our roots here are respected by the village and we can serve as your delegates for anything you may need.”
“You have made that clear, Hafizullah-sahib. Your sentiments are appreciated.” The voice was gruff and Shekiba detected a slight exasperation in it.
“I hope so, General-sahib. And I hope that you will accept my brother’s gift to the amir-sahib. It is a small token.”
“Yes, he mentioned this earlier. The servant will ride with our entourage in the morning to be taken to the palace.”
“Wonderful. Please, General-sahib, your journey tomorrow is long and you will need your strength. Have some more sweets . . .”
HAFIZULLAH’S WIFE CAME TO THE COURTYARD and found Shekiba slumped across a bench. She was a petite woman, her face lined with worry and fatigue. By the looks of her, she had done most of the preparation for the king’s visit. She clucked her tongue in dismay.
“Merciful Allah. Follow me, girl. I will show you where you can sleep until you leave in the morning.”
Shekiba slid to the floor in the corner of a dark room. She could see two small figures curled up and breathing softly. These were Hafizullah’s daughters, but Shekiba never did meet them. In the early hours of morning, the mistress of the house came to wake her. Shekiba bolted upright when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Wake up. The men are leaving.”
Shekiba focused. She heard the sounds of horses, men chattering outside the house.
She rose, made sure her Qur’an was tucked into her dress and walked outside to be taken to her new home.
CHAPTER 21
RAHIMA
THERE WAS BARELY ENOUGH ROOM in our small home for Abdul Khaliq’s family. They wanted to hold all three nikkahs at the same time and brought with them Abdul Khaliq’s mother, a gray-haired woman with downturned lips and narrowed eyes. She needed a walking stick but refused to use one, preferring to lean on her daughter-in-law’s forearm instead. They also brought Haji-sahib, a mullah. Khala Shaima scoffed at the mention of his name.
“Haji-sahib? If he’s Haji, then I’m a pari!” said Khala Shaima, whom no one would describe as an angel from heaven. The title haji was given to anyone who had made the religious pilgrimage to Mecca, God’s house. Haji-sahib, Khala Shaima reported, had dubbed himself with the title after paying a visit to a shrine north of our town. But as a dear friend of Abdul Khaliq, no one contested his credentials. The two men chatted amicably outside.
Shahla kept her head down and pleaded with my crying mother not to give her away. Madar-jan’s body shook, her voice trapped in her clenched throat. Shahla was more than a daughter to her. She was Madar-jan’s best friend. They shared the housework, the child care and their every thought.
Parwin was her special girl. Part of Madar-jan had held on to Khala Shaima’s prediction that no one would want Parwin as a wife. Sometimes it comforted
her that she would have her singing, drawing daughter with her always.
And me. I was Madar-jan’s helper. Her spunky, troublemaking bacha posh. I know she wondered if she had made the right decision. If I were a little wiser, I would have told her it had been the best thing for me. I would have told her that I wished I could have stayed a bacha posh forever.
The family was here to claim their three sister brides. We listened to hear what Khala Shaima would say.
Haji-sahib started with a prayer. Even Madar-jan cupped her hands and bowed her head to join in. I was pretty sure everyone was praying for different things. I wondered how Allah would sort it all out.
“Let us begin with a dua, a prayer. Bismillah al-rahman al-raheem . . .”
The room echoed behind him. Haji-sahib, the mullah, went on to recite a sura from the Qur’an.
“Yaa Musabbibal Asaabi.”
After a moment, we heard Khala Shaima interrupt.
“Yaa Musabbibal Asbaabi.”
There was a pause. The room had gone silent.
“Khanum, did you have reason to interrupt Haji-sahib?”
“Yes, I did. Mullah-sahib is reading the sura incorrectly. Oh causer of the causes, the verse is meant to read. Not causer of the fingers. I’m sure he would want to know he was making such an egregious error, wouldn’t you, Haji-sahib?”
The mullah cleared his throat and tried to pick up where he had left off. He thought hard but recited the verse the exact same way, error and all.
“Yaa Musabbibal Asaabi.”
Khala Shaima corrected him again.
“Asbaabi, Mullah-sahib.” Her tone was that of an annoyed schoolteacher. It didn’t go unnoticed.
I feared Padar-jan would make good on his threat to cut out Khala Shaima’s tongue. I was nervous for her.
“Shaima-jan, please have a little respect for our esteemed mullah here,” Boba-jan said.
“I have the utmost respect for him,” she said facetiously. “And I have the utmost respect for our Qur’an, as I’m sure you all do. What a disservice it would be for us to recite the verse incorrectly.”
The Pearl that Broke Its Shell Page 14