They must be giving her to a blind man. Who else could stand to look at such a face!
How quickly they turned on her! How quickly they forgot how she had carried their children, brought hot water for their baths and even scrubbed their backs when they asked. All the while she had been Shekiba-e-haleem to them; they winked to one another when she served the bowls of the hot dish to the women from the breakfast delivery.
Shekiba-e-haleem, serving up her special dish!
Maybe she should pour a bowl over the other side of her face—I swear it’s just the right color to match her complexion today! The cook must be a genius!
But there were a few, namely Halima and Benazir, who pitied Shekiba and knew that she needed help preparing for her nikkah.
“Who is this man?” Halima asked as she combed oil through Shekiba’s dull, short hair.
“I don’t know, Khanum Halima. No one has said anything to me.”
“Maybe it’s one of the servants from the main palace. Maybe they will have you work there now?” Benazir suggested. “Would you like that?”
“I suppose,” Shekiba said, her voice contained. That was not what she wanted at all, but she could not bring herself to share her secret with anyone. It was Amanullah that she hoped for—not a palace servant!
“Well, it is a bit strange that they have not told you anything.” Halima looked hopeful but reserved. Shekiba had misfortune written all over her and it was hard to imagine that even a marriage would bring her peace.
“You know, there are many things that come with marriage. You have seen this harem and you know what happens between a man and a woman. Your husband will expect you to fulfill wifely duties. You will not want to disappoint him,” Halima said gently.
Shekiba felt her stomach drop. She had not given much thought to what would happen between her and a husband. She thought of the squeals and grunts that came from the king’s chambers. She thought of what Mahbuba had told her and felt something between her legs tighten with anxiety.
“It is painful the first time,” Halima said.
“So painful!” Benazir echoed.
“But each time after that will be easier. And maybe Allah will bless you with a child.”
Benazir smiled and looked at Mezhgan, who lay sleeping a few feet away.
“You have said that the women in your family all bear sons. If you do so, you will make your husband a happy man. Especially if it is his firstborn.”
“Do you really think she’ll be a first wife?” Benazir asked.
“Anything is possible,” Halima said, looking at Shekiba and thinking of the last few days in the palace.
Later that afternoon, a second wave of news rippled through the harem. Nabila came running into the bath area. Shekiba could hear her through the door.
“Have you heard the news? He is to be engaged! Our dear prince Amanullah is to be engaged! He has finally chosen a bride!”
No one else connected the two stories. No one but Shekiba, who closed her eyes and prayed with a nervous heart.
AS PROMISED, A SOLDIER CAME to the harem two days after Tariq brought word to Shekiba. Ghafoor was standing outside and called into the house for Shekiba. They had not spoken since that dark night.
“Shekiba!” she called unceremoniously. “The palace has sent for you.”
Shekiba had spent her last night in Benafsha’s chambers, wondering about tomorrow. Her back still sore, she slept on her side. She stared at the door and imagined Agha Baraan entering to take the king’s concubine in secret. Why hadn’t Benafsha given her lover’s name?
Shekiba stood up slowly and smoothed her skirt, trying not to wake Tariq who had quietly joined her last night. She pictured Amanullah in his military uniform, his pants neatly pressed and his hat perched perfectly on his head. Looking at her own clothing, she felt embarrassed. She picked up her head scarf and crossed the corners under her chin. Tariq woke up, stretched and jumped to her feet. She threw both arms around Shekiba’s neck and squeezed her tightly. The gesture caught Shekiba by surprise.
“Is it time already? I wish you all the best, dear sister! May Allah bless the steps you are about to take and give you a lifetime of happiness.” Tariq’s eyes were tearful. “And don’t forget to pray for me sometimes too. Pray that I’ll be so lucky!”
“I’ll pray that you’ll be even luckier.”
With the palace waiting, there was no time to find Halima or Benazir to say good-bye. Shekiba walked past Ghafoor to the front door.
“How are you, Shekiba-jan? I hope you’re feeling better. I heard your punishment was severe.” She looked uncomfortable; her eyes wandered past Shekiba to the soldier waiting outside.
“I was delivered to them, blame already assigned. What else were they to do?”
“They must have assumed—”
“They assumed what they were told.” Shekiba spoke coolly.
“I did not . . . regardless, congratulations.”
“And to you too.”
“To me too?”
“Certainly. It’s not every day that one can successfully escape a fire.”
“Just wait a minute! I did not—”
Something in Shekiba made her turn around and look Ghafoor in the eyes. She was tired of holding her tongue.
“There’s something you do not know about me, Ghafoor.” Shekiba turned to glare at her directly. Her eyes narrowed with hate. “Do you wonder why my family sent me away? My family sent me away because I carry a curse and those around me ended up in a grave years before their time. And now, under these clear skies and with Satan listening, I curse you. May you suffer a hundred times over for each lash I bore. Mark my words, you snake, you will get what you deserve,” Shekiba said quietly.
Ghafoor’s shoulders stiffened with anger but her face went pale. Satisfied, Shekiba turned and walked toward the soldier.
Shekiba was led into a small room in the east wing of the palace. The two men who had questioned her only a few days ago sat waiting. The short man looked at the lanky man, waiting for him to begin speaking.
Will Amanullah come here? Is it possible I will meet him today? Is it possible that there will really be a nikkah between us?
“Salaam,” she said quietly with her head bowed. She fidgeted with her clothing, her head scarf, wanting every piece to look perfectly in place. They motioned for her to sit in the chair across from them. One man spoke while the other nodded in agreement and parroted his words.
“You are a fortunate girl.”
“Very fortunate.”
Shekiba did not look up.
“You have been shown mercy that you did not deserve. You should be very grateful.”
“Very grateful.”
“Someone has agreed to take you on as wife, a title one would have hardly expected for you. But this is a chance for you to redeem yourself. To attempt to live a respectable life and fulfill your duties as dictated by our holy Qur’an. Do you think you can do this?”
“I was raised with love for our holy book, sir. I want nothing more than to live an honorable life.”
He raised an eyebrow. Maybe he had anticipated a more insolent response.
“Very well then. As you can imagine, our dear king Habibullah has no desire to lay eyes on you again after the tragedy that befell this palace. But he has given his blessing that you be given in marriage.”
Shekiba’s heart pounded. Still they had not mentioned the man’s name. She waited on each word he uttered, anxious to hear that name, that sweet name—Amanullah!
“Your future spouse is in the room next door with the mullah. He is signing the marriage certificate.” The door opened and a third man appeared. He gave the other two a nod and they turned back to Shekiba.
“He has agreed, stating his intentions clearly thrice over. Now it is your turn. We will speak on your behalf. Do you agree to take Agha Baraan as your husband in life?”
Shekiba began nodding before she heard the name. She kept nodding even when she heard the na
me and even for a few seconds after, before her mind was able to process it.
“Agha Ba. . . . ?”
“It is a simple yes-or-no response. Do you agree to take Agha Baraan as your husband? And might I add that you would be a bigger fool than we already know you to be if you should even consider any response other than yes.”
Shekiba sat speechless. They stared at her expectantly while her mind spun.
What is happening? Why would Agha Baraan want me? Agha Baraan? Benafsha’s secret lover? This doesn’t make any sense at all.
Shekiba felt her face tingle.
“Yes or no?” Louder, impatient.
“Are you stupid? Just say yes so we can send word to the mullah to close the nikkah! Maybe we should just speak on her behalf. I’m in no mood to wait.”
“Fine, then it’s agreed. She hasn’t said no. I’ll tell the mullah.” The stocky man stood and walked out the door.
What about Amanullah? Then who is he to be married to? How could I have thought . . . ?
Shekiba thought of the conversation she had overheard in the garden. Her throat knotted with anger. Maybe she was as foolish as everyone said.
A paper was brought to Shekiba and she took the pen that was handed to her, already dipped in ink, and wrote her name on the line. She was dazed but aware enough to know there was nothing else she could do. She’d seen how the palace disposed of people.
They led her into the hallway, where she was instructed to don her burqa. She did as she was told and Agha Baraan emerged from a nearby room. He looked in her direction, his face more somber than she remembered; his eyes heavy, dark and mournful.
He nodded at her and walked down the hallway toward the door. She followed, hearing the sighs of relief from the king’s lanky and stout advisers behind her. She was leaving the palace with Agha Baraan. Her nikkah had been signed, the contract official and binding. Shekiba was married to Agha Baraan.
CHAPTER 50
RAHIMA
SEEING SHAHLA MADE ME MISS HER MORE. And Parwin. As the car bumped down the dirt road to Kabul, I thought about my sisters. Shahla looked like she was being treated well. Her mother-in-law seemed to be kinder, gentler than Bibi Gulalai. Just last night, Bibi Gulalai had taken her walking stick to my shoulder as I swept the hallway. She snapped the stick against my kneecaps when I fell to my side. She didn’t like the way I was crouched, she said. It was shameful.
I shifted in the seat, realizing the seat belt was pushing against a sore spot below my collarbone. I sighed heavily. Badriya pretended not to notice and I was grateful for that. I had no intention of crying on her shoulder.
But there was something else that I’d been thinking about since Shahla’s visit. Something that had been creeping into my mind since we sisters left our father’s house. Shahla had chosen to name her daughter Parwin. I loved Parwin with all my heart but it was undeniably bold and bad luck to name a child after someone with a lame leg. I wondered if I could have brought myself to name a child Parwin. Or Shaima. I hoped my aunt would never know. I felt a surge of shame to think it but I wouldn’t have used either of those names.
Bringing Jahangir into the world had nearly killed me. I prayed I would not become pregnant again and for once Allah had answered my prayers. But by now my body had regained strength and my mind had blurred the memory of his birth; I had started to want another child. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t become pregnant again but I thought maybe Allah had a plan for me. Maybe next month. As foolish and illogical as it was, I prayed my next child would be a girl.
What name would I choose? Raisa. My mother. Absolutely not. I was less embarrassed to admit that. I could picture her eyes in a toxic glaze, red with smoke, while Rohila and Sitara watched on helplessly. No, I could never use my mother’s name. But I couldn’t think of my mother without missing her, missing the way she held me on the day of our nikkahs, the day that broke her.
Zamarud? Maybe, but probably not. Too many people disliked her, enough to try to kill her. If they tried once, they would likely try again and maybe succeed. Then it would be the name of a murdered parliamentarian. No, I thought. That wouldn’t do.
Hamida? Or Sufia? Very possibly. I liked them both, Hamida a bit more because she had pushed Badriya to let me see more in the parliament, to do more outside.
Shekiba. That was it. That was the name I would have chosen. The name of my bibi’s bibi. The woman who lived the double life I had, walked in a man’s clothes, worked with a man’s strength and fended for herself. That’s what I would want to name my daughter, if I were to have one. If.
“I’m not going to babysit you just because of what happened with Zamarud. You better look out for yourself,” Badriya said sharply. Kabul’s busy streets were coming into view. I turned and looked at her, not sure what she was implying.
“Fine with me. I didn’t think you were looking out for me before,” I said flatly, but I was too late to catch myself. Badriya’s eyes widened.
“Why, you insolent little . . .” Unable to find the words, she whipped the back of her hand against my face. My eyes watered and my nose stung. I prayed it wouldn’t bleed on my freshly washed dress. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, you worthless girl. Just remember you’re here only because of me and I can change my mind about your usefulness anytime.”
I bit my tongue and looked out the tinted window.
We checked back into our room at the hotel. The apartment our husband had purchased needed a lot of work before we could stay there. He’d asked his guard and driver to find some local workers to replace the flooring and cover the windows. He didn’t want people or neighbors catching a glimpse of his wives.
Badriya set to unpacking right away, hanging her dresses in the closet.
I saw something that made my jaw drop. Our room had a television in it! It hadn’t been here on our last trip and Badriya had never mentioned having one before. I turned it on and saw Badriya watching me, very interested.
There was a knock on the door. I looked at Badriya.
“Don’t just stand there like an idiot. Find out who it is!”
It was the man we’d seen downstairs when we checked in. Our driver stood behind him, his arms crossed.
“Excuse me, khanum-ha, forgive me for intruding but it seems that we’ve forgotten one thing. May I enter please?” He looked back at Maroof, who nodded.
I stepped away from the door, turned to the side, and kept my head scarf pulled across my face. I didn’t need Maroof reporting anything back to my husband about my behavior. The man entered our room, turned the television off and unplugged it. He wrapped his arms around it and lugged it out the door while I watched, brokenhearted. I had seen about thirty seconds of a woman singing in a grass field, the small mirrors on her traditional Afghan dress catching the sun.
The door closed. Abdul Khaliq had a television back at the compound. A large box he kept in his own room, with an antenna that tracked to the roof of the house. We weren’t permitted to watch it. Once he’d caught me in there, eyeing it and fingering the buttons, daring myself to turn it on. I didn’t expect him to be home. He’d thundered into the room and grabbed me by the neck so hard I couldn’t breathe.
“What do you think you’re doing? Let me catch you watching television and I’ll rip your eyeballs out of their sockets!”
Khala Shaima had explained his reaction to me when I asked her if she had a television at home.
“Your husband is a lot of things but he’s not a stupid man. He knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t want you to see what’s going on in the rest of the country, what the other women are doing. These television stations now have so many programs, female singers, female news reporters. Even men advocating on behalf of women. Can you imagine that? Now can you imagine how you would feel if you were to see women like that every day? He needs to keep you blindfolded.”
The hotel manager had forgotten to remove the television before we got there. It angered me to realize how tight our leash was, even this f
ar away from Abdul Khaliq. I felt like I was being buried in a hole, deeper and deeper every day until I could hardly see daylight.
At least returning to the jirga sessions was a break for me. And I was thankful to see Hamida and Sufia again. They greeted us with hugs and asked about our children. I couldn’t help but notice, happily, that they were warmer with me than they were with Badriya. I liked that they liked me.
The attack on Zamarud had frightened Badriya, as it had many other female parliamentarians. Hamida told me two women had decided not to return, afraid that they would be in danger as well. Zamarud was badly hurt, she said. Her wounds had gotten infected and she’d been hospitalized. She was not expected to survive.
The session opened with a prayer. I sat with Badriya, our heads bowed and our hands cupped. I spent the day filling out her papers and reading documents to her. She snapped at me for reading too slowly but I said nothing. It was easier that way. After the sessions and during our breaks, I would tag along with Hamida and Sufia, who were kind enough not to ask why I didn’t accompany Badriya. It was only within the parliament building that my husband’s driver and guard did not keep track of my whereabouts. Here, the leash slackened.
After the sessions, Badriya wanted Maroof and our guard to escort her back to the hotel. She had no interest in attending classes at the women’s training center but I certainly did. The guards had more stock in looking after Abdul Khaliq’s first wife, so they watched nonchalantly as I climbed into Hamida’s car, leaving me under the watch of her guard and driver.
We opened the door to the training center, which was, as usual, empty until we got there.
“Hello!” Ms. Franklin called out happily.
I wondered how she could be so cheerful all the time.
We alternated every day. One day she would teach basic English, and the following day we were back on the computer, learning to navigate the Internet or type notes. I thrilled at being a student again and longed for a real classroom, one full of boys my age whom I could learn with, joke with and play soccer with.
The Pearl that Broke Its Shell Page 33