The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

by Nadia Hashimi

  “This is the pool room,” Ghafoor announced, watching for the astonished reaction she knew the view would draw. Shekib’s mouth opened slightly and Ghafoor chuckled. Shekib ignored her amusement. The stone walls rose tall and grand. A balcony on the second level overlooked the pool.

  There were plants in the room, lush green leaves that drank in the room’s moisture. The women looked over at Shekib and Ghafoor briefly, but seeing only Shekib’s good half, their attention quickly returned to their conversation. The guards walked onward.

  “These rooms are for the concubines. Some have to share, but the ones with children each get their own. In about a half hour, the palace will send over lunch. The palace has female servants who come to these quarters but sometimes we help them gather the plates when the meals are done.”

  “What else are we supposed to do?” Shekib’s eyes were busy looking at the maze of doors.

  “Just keep an eye on things. Most important is to control the ins and outs. No one is to come in without our knowledge and approval, just as no one is to go out. Every once in a while, especially for someone who is new here, they may want to wander around. It is our responsibility to guard against things like that. And sometimes the women call on us for help with something. Nothing else, really. Like I said before, everybody has a role in the palace. This is ours.”

  The voices in the large room grew louder in unsynchronized excitement. Ghafoor’s ears perked.

  “Let’s go see what has the women feisty this morning. That kind of chatter means something’s going on.”

  Ghafoor was not wrong. Amanullah, the king’s son, had returned to the palace.

  CHAPTER 29

  SHEKIB

  “WHY ALL THIS EXCITEMENT for the king’s son?”

  “Why? Do you not know about his son Amanullah? You poor thing. You have so much to learn still!”

  Shekib decided Ghafoor was a snob but tolerable.

  “Tell me then. Why all the fuss for him?”

  “He’s the one. All bets are that he will succeed the king. He’s the governor of Kabul and he’s in charge of the army and the treasury.”

  “What’s the treasury?” Shekib had never before heard the word.

  “You know! It’s the group that works with the army. They give out food and uniforms. And . . . and sometimes they take care of the horses too.” Something about the way Ghafoor fidgeted told Shekib her answer could not be trusted. “But the most important thing about him is that he is not yet married. Amanullah is of age and his father is in search of the right bride for him. What a lucky girl she will be!”

  “When will he marry?”

  “The king has not yet decided. But Amanullah is well loved among the women of the harem. He is kind and handsome, more so than his father. The women servants of the palace are always on their best behavior around him, wishing they could be his concubine instead of his father’s.”

  “Does he have his own harem?”

  “No. He hasn’t yet married. He probably will once he marries.”

  Amanullah had been gone for two months. Traveling to the disputed British-Afghan borders had exhausted him and he did not care for the usual palace pomp. Shekib would not get a look at him today but two days later, she did see his father.

  Amanullah must have brought good news from the front line.

  Shekib stood in the corner of the pool room shifting her weight and wondering how long she would be living in this palace. Life was comfortable enough. The rice and vegetables were plentiful, the cakes sweet. She had a blanket to keep her warm at night and the company of women-men who meant her no harm. But Shekib was still restless. She wondered what her mother and father would think to see her living in the king’s palace. She wondered if they could see her from heaven, dressed as a man. Her father would likely not notice any difference. He had never seen her as girl or boy while he walked the earth. She still grew angry when she thought of her father’s land. Her land. Seeing the torn deed scatter in the hakim’s courtyard like fallen leaves had hurt more than Azizullah’s beating.

  Bring your head out of the sky and understand your place in this world, Khanum Marjan had said.

  Everyone has a purpose here in the palace, Ghafoor had told her.

  Shekib wondered what her place in this world was. Something told her it was not her place to be a house servant. And it was not her place to be the unwanted granddaughter. Surely, being a harem guard could not be her fate either, as comfortable as it had seemed in the last couple of days. Shekib knew in her heart that she would need to act if she were to find her true purpose.

  If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with finding a way out of her current situation, she might have noticed the king sooner. As it was, she had no idea how long he had been on the balcony. She hadn’t even noticed that the women in the pool had quieted their loud laughs and started behaving more demurely.

  “Guard!”

  Shekib jolted at the sound of a man’s voice. She looked up and recognized the man from the carriage. Her heart pounded.

  Had he seen her daydreaming? Her defenses went up instinctively.

  “Guard! Come here!”

  Shekib straightened her back, bowed her head and walked up the narrow stairs that led to the balcony. The king had entered from a back stairway, unnoticed. He had his uniform on but no hat. He was leaning over the railing, eyeing the women in the pool with casual interest.

  Shekib said nothing and kept her head lowered.

  A lifetime passed before he spoke.

  “Bring me Sakina.”

  “Bring her here?”

  The king turned around sharply. He was not accustomed to hearing the guards speak. His squinted eyes bored into her face. She instinctively turned to the side.

  “You are new?” he said finally.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hmph. Tell Sakina I have called for her. She will show you the way.”

  Shekib nodded and headed back down the stairs. The women had heard the king’s voice and awaited Shekib’s return. They were familiar with his perch and his habits. Shekib still had much to learn about the palace. The women looked at each other but dared not look up. They spoke in a hush.

  Shekib stood at the poolside and looked at Sakina, her thick, dark hair pulled back in a braid and her pale shoulders beaded with moisture.

  “He calls for you,” Shekib said softly.

  Sakina smiled slyly, her lips pulled to one corner. “Me, again? Dear God, I thought he had had enough of me by now.” She spoke loudly enough for the ladies in the pool to hear.

  Shekib saw some eyes roll, some mouths tighten. Benafsha’s green eyes fixated on Sakina’s behind.

  “Some days men crave qaimaq. Other days they make do with spoiled milk.” Benafsha’s voice was cool and even. The others tried to hide their giggles. Benafsha dipped her head back, her long dark locks fanning into the water. For now, she was the qaimaq, the cream of the harem.

  Sakina turned and shot her a hateful look. She stepped out of the water and reached for her towel. She wrapped it around her naked body and patted herself dry before standing at Shekib’s side. Some of the women noticed Shekib’s face for the first time.

  “Allah, have mercy! Look at that! I guess after Benafsha, they have made an extra effort to pick guards who won’t tempt the king!”

  “Mercy, Allah, please! I can’t even imagine . . .”

  Sakina looked at her expectantly, ignoring the jabbering behind them.

  “He said . . . he said you would show me the way,” Shekib said finally.

  Sakina raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I know the way.”

  Shekib heard the conversation continue as she turned around.

  “It looks like haleem, doesn’t it?”

  Shekib sighed. This was not the first time her face had been compared to the dish of slow-cooked meat with grains, mushy enough that it could be spoon-fed to infants.

  “Her face?”

  “Oh, you’re right! How awful!”

&
nbsp; “Damn you, you know how much I love haleem! You’ve just gone and ruined my breakfast for me!”

  There were quiet chuckles as Shekiba’s new nickname was passed around and adopted by the group.

  Sakina took the lead and Shekib followed her into a back corridor and up a separate flight of steps. At the top of the steps was a heavy wooden door. Sakina stopped and turned back to face Shekib. “Now, knock on that door and when you hear an answer, you’ll open the door, then turn around and return to the others. This is as far as you go.”

  Shekib nodded and did as Sakina instructed. From within, she heard the king’s voice bellow something incomprehensible. She opened the door just enough for Sakina to enter, holding her towel around her and her head lowered. Shekib closed the door and waited for a moment. She could hear their voices talking quietly. A laugh. A squeal. Shekib felt her face blush remembering that Sakina had nothing but a towel to cover her. She turned back down the stairs, suddenly afraid that she would be discovered lingering outside the room.

  Her introduction to the harem was complete. She understood now that the king visited who he wanted, when he wanted. He came often but usually didn’t stay long. There were some consorts he favored more than others, some he ignored for the most part but kept in the harem. The nine women who had borne him sons were treated better than the others. These nine women were given dresses with the finest embroidery and the choicest fruits, and they walked taller than the rest. Their places were more secure than the others’, thanks to their gifted wombs. Neelab, whose three boys had not lived more than a month, was the exception. She had disappointed the king more than those women who had borne him daughters and she would receive no special treatment until she could give him a son who would live long enough to at least take a few steps.

  Shekib watched and learned over the next few months. She paid attention to the way the palace functioned, the way the women interacted with each other and the habits of the king. She was stronger than the other guards and began to take on duties that the others struggled with. It was easy for her to lug the heavy pails of water into the harem. She had no trouble carrying the children when they fell asleep in the courtyard. She was not a threat to anyone, thanks to her disfigurement.

  But Shekib did not stop thinking about her own plight. She watched the women of the harem. At least they belonged to someone. At least they had someone to care for them, to look after them. Daughters looked at their mothers’ faces, nestled against their bosoms. How that must feel!

  But what would become of the guards?

  Shekib needed a plan. In the meantime, she made sure to fulfill her obligations and keep Ghafoor and the palace satisfied. She did not want to invite any punishment, thinking back to her grandmother and Azizullah. In more powerful households, the food might have been better but the penalties were that much harsher.

  She was in the courtyard of the harem when she saw him. He walked casually with another man, a man with a wool hat and a short beard. Shekib had seen the man in the wool hat before. He was Amanullah’s friend, she had been told. His name was Agha Baraan. Shekib wondered what they were talking about. This was the fifth time she had seen the prince and she now understood why his arrival had created such a stir.

  Amanullah, the king’s son, was striking. He was solidly built, a few inches taller than Shekib. When he walked, his broad shoulders spoke of confidence, even though he seemed to be close to Shekib’s age. He exuded a natural boldness, tempered with kind, rational eyes.

  Shekib melted into Shekiba.

  She had instinctively tried to cover her left face and lower her gaze the first time she saw him. After the third sighting, however, she changed her approach as she realized she could take advantage of her “manhood.” She stared at the prince, who did not see her gawking anyway.

  He gave her something to think about instead of her father’s land. Or her dead family.

  They were headed into the palace gardens. Shekib’s hand touched her face and hair, wondering what she looked like to him. She knew half her face was actually beautiful. She could tell by the reaction of those who only saw as much.

  She had worried that if she were ever to have children, they would turn away from her, repulsed by the demi-mask she wore. But the children of the harem reached out to her, trusted her, laughed when she tickled them. Maybe her own children would do the same. Maybe her own children would see her as her mother had, as unflawed and worthy of love.

  And then Shekib realized how she could change her fate. How she could stop being gifted from one stranger to another. But to do so she needed to belong to someone, to a man. And if she had sons, she would seal her fate. A mother of sons would not be passed from hand to hand like livestock.

  Amanullah had paused. His companion was pointing to some bushes that had flowered in the last week. He bent over and touched the leaves with an attentiveness Shekib would not have expected from the commander of the army. And the treasury, whatever that really was.

  She stood tall, the right side of her face turned in his direction. She willed him to turn and look at her, to see her. She walked a few steps forward, hoping movement would attract his attention. He stood up and, almost as if pulled by her thoughts, turned in her direction.

  Shekib’s heart leapt into her throat. She froze, watching him from the corner of her eye and wondering what she should do. She gave a half smile and bowed her head just slightly, without diverting her view.

  He began to speak and turned back to the friend, without changing his expression. Was he saying something about her? What could it be? Could he tell her apart from the other guards at this distance? Maybe the king had told him about her, the newest of the women-men.

  Shekib realized she was smiling and turned back to face the house. She did not want anyone to see her staring at Amanullah and his friend as they walked thoughtfully through the maze of bushes and flowers. She bit her lower lip and pulled her shoulders back. An idea was beginning to take shape in her mind but it would require some work.

  CHAPTER 30

  RAHIMA

  SEASONS CHANGED, TWO YEARS PASSED and I feared I was forgetting what my mother looked like. I doubted I would recognize my younger sisters if I were ever to run into them. I got updates from Khala Shaima but it usually wasn’t good news. She tempered what she told us but she felt we had a right to know. Madar-jan had become as much of an addict as my father. Rohila and Sitara were mostly left to fend for themselves, though my grandmother sometimes stepped in to pick up the slack. In return, Madar-jan was doing more work around the compound and the already strained relationship between her and her in-laws had deteriorated. Padar-jan, when clear-headed, made her life miserable. After all, as his mother pointed out, she wasn’t being much of a wife or mother these days.

  Part of me was thankful that I wasn’t around to see what had become of my mother. Part of me wondered if things would have been different had I been sent back. Once I started that line of thinking, I could go on for days with what-if scenarios. I always ended up in the same place—wondering how things would have worked out had I never been made a bacha posh. I think that’s where my family started to crumble. Inevitably, I would wonder if Shahla and Parwin had the same thoughts. And if they still resented me.

  I also wondered what Bibi Shekiba was planning. The walls around me were so stifling I couldn’t imagine what had given her a spark of hope.

  In the meantime, I learned the rhythm of the compound and found my niche within it. The crescent moon rounded and thinned many times over as I found ways to make my life easier, though nothing changed who I was to Bibi Gulalai.

  My son, Jahangir, was ten months old at the time, a miracle in his own right. Carrying him for nine months and pushing him out of my body had nearly ripped me apart. I had never seen so much blood. Jameela delivered him, as she had Shahnaz’s children. Abdul Khaliq did not like for his wives to go to hospitals and there were no midwives in our area. My husband’s wife cut the umbilical cord while I lay exhaus
ted and stunned. I’d never felt so weak. Jameela rubbed my belly and brought thick broths of flour, oil, sugar and walnuts to my lips, urging me to drink. I faintly remember her praying over me, mumbling something about my not having the same fate as her uncle’s wives. I wonder if it was her prayers that protected me.

  Jameela and Shahnaz cared for my little boy for the first week while I recovered. Even Bibi Gulalai left me alone for a while. At least I had borne a son, she said. Finally, I had done something right.

  Jahangir was named after a character Abdullah, Ashraf and I had created, a figure born of our collective imaginations. Jahangir was a strong and mighty man who feared no one. He was the ultimate athlete, the strongest fighter and the cleverest person in the whole country. He was the conqueror of the world, as his name implied. We all wanted to be Jahangir. He could do anything.

  It became a running joke between us. When Abdullah huffed that he couldn’t learn the newest karate move we’d seen, we told him Jahangir wouldn’t have given up so easily. When I couldn’t get the soccer ball anywhere near the goalpost, I focused my thoughts on Jahangir and how he would kick the ball. Ashraf channeled Jahangir’s persona when he tried to haggle his way through the market, gloating when he felt he’d gotten a real bargain out of a vendor.

  While I was pregnant, I hadn’t given much thought to a name, as if I believed babies were born with names, just as they were born with two arms or two legs. I was so frightened by the prospect of having a baby that I didn’t care much about its name. But Jameela got me thinking.

  “You must have a name and it has to mean something,” she said.

  By the time she had finished washing the blood from my thighs, my son was named.

  It took me a couple of weeks to adjust to him. I would always be grateful to Jameela for her help. Even Shahnaz, at nineteen, was an experienced mother and couldn’t resist teaching me how to feed, bathe and hold this tiny person.

  I fell in love with him. Jahangir was my salvation—his face became my escape. He gave me reason to rise in the morning and to hope for tomorrow.