The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

by Nadia Hashimi

  I opened the door to find Jameela rushing toward it. Her face told me everything.

  “Jameela!”

  “Oh, Rahima-jan! Allah, help us—dear, young mother!” Her voice rose and fell, my heart with it.

  “Jameela, where’s my son? Where’s Jahangir? Is he all right?” I grabbed her by the arms and moved her aside, pushing my way toward her room. Shahnaz emerged, holding her chador tightly at her chin. She was looking down, avoiding my gaze. I stopped short when I saw her. Her lips were trembling.

  “Why are you all out here? Who’s watching my son? Where is he?”

  Jameela rushed back and grabbed me before I could run into her room. By this time, Badriya had joined her.

  Jameela hugged me tightly and held my head to her chest.

  “Rahima-jan, Rahima-jan, God has decided to take your son! He’s taken your little boy, dear girl. God give him peace, that darling little boy!”

  I froze. That was what I’d read in Badriya’s face. I looked at her now but she, like Shahnaz, diverted her tearful eyes.

  Someone wailed. Someone moaned no, no, no, no. My son’s name.

  It was my voice.

  This couldn’t be true. This couldn’t be real. I looked around, thinking everyone I lived with had gone mad.

  Abdul Khaliq came into the hallway, his eyes red, his lips tight. He looked at me and shook his head. I saw my husband’s shoulders heave. Bibi Gulalai stood behind him, sobbing into a handkerchief.

  “Why? Why would you leave a sick child? His mother should have been here with him!” she cried out.

  I looked into my husband’s eyes, our first truly intimate moment. It was as if no one else existed.

  It’s true . . . It’s true, Rahima. What they’re saying about Jahangir, our son, is true! Our beloved boy is gone!

  Abdul Khaliq covered his eyes with his hands before he looked up, took a deep breath and yelled for someone to find his prayer cap. His voice cracked and my chest caved in as the air was sucked out of the house.

  CHAPTER 54

  RAHIMA

  I’M NOT ALTOGETHER SURE what happened after that. There was whispering, wailing, cursing and praying. All at once and then one at a time. Voices and faces blurred around me.

  Let me see my son, I screamed. I want to see Jahangir.

  Have a sip of water. You look as if you’re about to pass out.

  Someone brought a glass to my lips.

  The other children were in the living room, the older ones somberly watching over the babies and trying to keep them quiet.

  Abdul Khaliq’s compound had never experienced such tragedy. Even I, who had lost my father, my mother, my sisters and myself, even I could not believe God would add this to my lot.

  They led me to Jameela’s room. My little boy. His tiny face looked pale, his lips gray. I fell to my knees and put my head on his small chest. I stroked his chestnut hair, touched his full cheeks. I talked to him as if there was no one else in the room, as if there was no one else in the world. I wanted to comfort him and breathe life back into his little body. I was his mother. I had given him life and when he was ill, I had nursed him back to health. Why should now be any different?

  I snapped when I felt a hand pull at my elbow.

  “Leave us alone! I need to make my son better. He always wakes when I whisper his name. You’ll see him yawn, rub his eyes and look around in confusion. He’s going to tell me he missed me and that I shouldn’t go away again.”

  There were traditions, rules that needed to be followed.

  One hand became two, or maybe it was four. When there were enough, the hands became stronger than I and the room shrank away from me. I was in the hallway. I was on the floor. I was outside of myself. The arms melted away.

  That is enough, they whispered. I hated them.

  Bibi Gulalai was there. Wailing louder than anyone else.

  Why? Dear Allah, what a sweet little boy he was! Too young, too young to take! His face, I picture his face before me as if he were still here. I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it! Oh, my poor son! Why should you have to have such a tragedy happen to you, my God-fearing son! My lion among men! If only I’d known sooner! I could have done more for him! I could have made him better!

  I hated her.

  I was numb. Days passed. Rituals were performed. All the right prayers were said. All the wrong people came to pay their respects. I noticed little of it, only the absence of my own family. My mother, my father. They never came to their grandson’s fateha. My father was not there to carry my son or throw fistfuls of dirt onto his grave. It mattered, though it shouldn’t have. Jahangir had never known them anyway.

  Khala Shaima came, as did Shahla. My aunt and my sister sat by my side as I rocked back and forth, their eyes red and raw. Someone asked Khala Shaima about my parents, if they were coming. Shahla bit her lip and looked at the ground. I heard my husband curse my father. He was insulted, not only as a son-in-law but also as a former commander. Whatever respect he owed his father-in-law, out of tradition, was lost now. And I didn’t care.

  “Oh God, Rahima-jan,” Shahla whispered. “I can’t believe this! He was so full of light!”

  I closed my eyes.

  Khala Shaima looked thinner than she had the last time I’d seen her but I couldn’t bear to think on it much. She shook her head and whispered to me that the medicine had gotten the best of my parents. It was hard to tell which of them was worse than the other. She clucked her tongue in dismay and squeezed my limp hand.

  “They can barely get themselves up and about in the house,” she said.

  “You’re there a lot,” I said blankly.

  She nodded. She was concerned about Rohila and Sitara. She had mentioned in her last visit that rumors were circulating of suitors for my younger sisters. She wanted to make sure the girls were not given away in a careless stupor.

  My aunts and uncles came. Even my grandparents. I kissed their hands. They cried and made sorry excuses to my husband and mother-in-law for the notable absence of my mother and father. They were embarrassed more than anything else.

  You never saw him, I wanted to scream. You didn’t know how sweet he was.

  I’d never expected much from my grandparents. They’d had little to do with my sisters and me since we were married off. It was as people said. Once married, girls no longer belonged to the families that raised them. Especially if they only raised them halfway. But Madar-jan, she’d been so different once upon a time.

  “She’s that bad?” I asked Khala Shaima.

  “She’s that bad, dokhtar-jan,” she said, confirming it. “Your sisters, Rohila and Sitara, they really wanted to come see you. But your grandmother didn’t think it was proper for them to come without your mother. And, of course, she wouldn’t let them come with me. Rohila cried when she heard. She wanted to hide under my burqa and sneak over here. Sitara, she’s very reserved but she’s a strong girl. You girls would be very proud of your sisters.”

  I was sure she was right. They were surviving in a home without a mother or father, essentially. They’d been abandoned just as much as my own son.

  “I should have taken him, Khala Shaima. I should have taken him to Kabul with me. He wouldn’t have gotten sick with me. And even if he had, I could have taken him to a hospital. They have the best hospitals there. Lots of doctors. Even foreign ones.”

  “Your husband never would have allowed it. He keeps his sons at his side, my dear. You know that.”

  “Then I should have stayed with him. I didn’t have to go to Kabul.”

  Khala Shaima said nothing. We both knew it had been her idea.

  My son was buried in the family plot, a half kilometer from the compound. It was sacred earth for Abdul Khaliq’s family.

  My husband was quiet, different. I knew he was hurt.

  “He’s with his ancestors now. They’re watching over him, as is Allah. His fate is our fate,” Abdul Khaliq said to me when the men returned from the burial.


  Naseeb. Was it really Jahangir’s destiny to be taken so young? Was it my naseeb never to see my son grow taller than me, to go to school, to help his father at work?

  Abdul Khaliq asked Jameela to look after me. I saw him pull her aside and have a few words. They watched me. Badriya too, although a week after Jahangir was buried, she quietly asked Abdul Khaliq when she could return to Kabul. His hand flew across her face so fast that she’d barely finished her sentence.

  I closed my eyes and wished for everyone to disappear, including myself.

  Every Friday, Abdul Khaliq’s friends and family members gathered at our compound for a khatm. Each person read one of the thirty parts of the Qur’an. Prayers were said at the completion, or khatm, of the holy book. I could hear them from down the hall and prayed along with them, hoping it did Jahangir some good. It did me none.

  Khala Shaima came back more often than before, even though the trip had become very difficult for her. She was worried. I was losing weight; my clothes hung loosely on me. When I looked in the mirror I saw someone I barely recognized. My face had dark spots and my eyes were heavy. I saw Jameela and Khala Shaima exchange worried looks.

  Abdul Khaliq let me be for the most part. He wasn’t speaking much either. His guards tiptoed around him. His friends kept their voices low and their comments brief. My husband, the warlord, was not one to express or show emotion, but it was clear that he was grieving. He was short even with Bibi Gulalai.

  My head felt like an empty, dark room. My insides were painfully hollow. I missed my son’s face, his smile, the way his small fingers held on to mine. He was supposed to be safe. He had survived infancy. He had learned to walk, to talk, to tell me when he was hungry and when he was happy. Jahangir. His name was a dagger. His name was a salve.

  Four weeks passed before I was able to ask the questions that remained.

  “Jameela-jan.”

  Jameela stopped short, surprised to hear my voice. “Yes?”

  “What happened to him?”

  Jameela stood still for a moment, pondering my question. Then she sat on the cushion next to me in the living room, tucking her legs under her and straightening her skirt. She put her hand on mine.

  “Rahima-jan, he became ill. Everything happened very quickly. So quickly.” Her mind traveled back to that day. “Abdul Khaliq called Badriya right away.”

  “I want to know what happened to him,” I said insistently.

  After me, Jameela probably carried the most guilt. I’d left Jahangir in her care and come back to find my son dead. She felt terrible about it. She wasn’t sure how much to explain and how much to leave unsaid. She told me in bits and pieces, filtering as she went along.

  First came the fever. His body was hot. From his head to his toes, so hot, Jameela said. She had tried to fan him, to cool him down with baths. His bowels were loose. Jameela looked for worms but saw nothing in his stool. When he started to complain about his stomach hurting, she’d talked to Abdul Khaliq. He saw Jahangir’s trembling body and immediately called for Bibi Gulalai. Bibi Gulalai set to work making a soup heavy with garlic and herbs to clear the germ from his body. But instead of getting better, things got worse.

  On the fourth day, Jahangir’s belly was freckled with red spots. Jameela tried again to cool him with moist cloths on his forehead and sips of water. When Jahangir stopped whining and complaining about his belly, she thought he was finally getting better. She thought he needed a few days of rest and that by the time we returned he would be back to his usual self, just as I’d left him.

  We were both crying. She paused her story two or three times, collecting herself and then looking at me. I nodded for her to continue. I needed to know.

  By that afternoon, Jameela realized that Jahangir was delirious. He wasn’t answering her questions but he was mumbling and batting away something that wasn’t there. She called his name. His eyes were glassy. She called again for Abdul Khaliq, who had just returned from an overnight trip with his guards. Never before had she seen our husband so shaken, Jameela said. He took one look at his son, then flew out the door and summoned his driver and guards. He came back into the room and cradled Jahangir in his arms while he yelled for Jameela to pack some water and bread for the drive to the hospital. Before she knew it, Jameela was standing at the front gate, watching the tires of Abdul Khaliq’s black truck spin and screech as they tore off down the road.

  She didn’t want to go on. I put my hand on hers. She looked tortured. She sighed and continued, trying to get her words out in one short burst.

  They came back the next day, heavy, morose faces. Jameela ran out to meet them. Abdul Khaliq looked at her and shook his head.

  “Crying,” she said. “I’ve never seen him looking like that. I never thought . . . the doctor wasn’t able to do anything for him. He was too weak and they think he had developed a terrible infection of his stomach. Horrible. Something that just took over, making his belly stone-hard when the doctor tried to touch it. He was in the hospital until morning and they were giving him serum but it didn’t work. I suppose . . . I suppose it was his naseeb,” she said, sobbing. “Rahima-jan, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how he got so sick so quickly! He felt better for a bit. He let me rub his stomach. I thought it was helping . . .”

  “Why didn’t he take my son to the doctor sooner?” I knew she felt badly. At the moment, I didn’t care very much. I wanted to know if something could have been done. I wanted to know who to blame.

  “Abdul Khaliq? He . . . he wanted to. Before he left for his meetings.”

  “Then why didn’t he?”

  Jameela shook her head in frustration. “Rahima-jan, what’s done is done now. It won’t help anything to ask so many questions. It’s best you think of your son, pray for him to be in peace.”

  “I’m tired of praying, damn it. I want to know. What happened, Jameela?” I said insistently. She was glossing over something.

  “Abdul Khaliq was going to take Jahangir to the hospital but . . . but Bibi Gulalai stopped him.”

  “What? Why on earth would she do that?”

  “She thought . . . she thought she could heal him with the teas and soups she was making for him.”

  My heart sank. Bibi Gulalai was going to save him. I nearly laughed. Her concoctions had never saved anyone from anything. She had stood in the way of my son getting to the doctor. My husband had tried, I thought.

  “He really did try,” Jameela echoed, as if she could read my thoughts.

  I had a fresh hatred for Bibi Gulalai. She’d been the one to delay Jahangir’s treatment. She’d been yelling and carrying on about the absent mother being to blame. Now I knew why. Bibi Gulalai always boasted about the powers of her remedies. She claimed she could heal any ailment with her potent, homemade brews, and that she had. The family humored her. She wanted to look good, the grandmother who stepped in and cured her grandchild while his shameful mother played in Kabul.

  One more question to ask, the question I dreaded because there was no good answer. It haunted me.

  “Jameela-jan . . . ,” I said, my voice breaking.

  “Yes, janem,” she said gently.

  I was looking over the edge of a cliff.

  “Jameela-jan . . . did he . . . did he cry for me?”

  Jameela, loving mother of six, had also given birth to two children who had been claimed by Allah before she could see their smiles. Jameela pulled me into her arms and kissed my forehead. She read my heart.

  “My dear madar-ak”—little mother—she whispered, though I wasn’t one anymore. “What child doesn’t call out for his mother? What could be more comforting than a mother’s embrace? I believe, in his sleep, that’s where your little boy was, feeling your arms around him, janem.”

  “But I wasn’t there!” I cried. “I wasn’t there to hold him, to wipe away his tears, to kiss him good-bye! He was just a baby! How scared he must have been!”

  “I know, Rahima-jan, but he wasn’t alone. No one can replace you but a
t least his father was there with him. His father held him. And you know, Abdul Khaliq loved his little son very much.”

  It wasn’t until weeks later that this conversation would bring me solace. For now, I stored her words, saving them for when my heart had healed enough to believe that my son had felt my embrace. That his father had held him lovingly in his last moments. That he did not feel as alone as I did now.

  CHAPTER 55

  SHEKIBA

  SHEKIBA SWEPT THE FLOOR of the living room, beating the dust from the rug section by section. She had breathed a huge sigh of relief after Aasif had left her room, thankful that he had not touched her as his wife. At least for now. He felt remorse for what he had done. And Shekiba could hear something in his voice that she hadn’t heard in a long time. Aasif sounded as if he cared about Benafsha. Maybe her first impression of him hadn’t been that far off. There was still a lot to learn about him but it seemed he had a heart.

  Shekiba had spent the rest of the night replaying his words in her mind and trying to piece together how she had come to be his wife.

  He could not stop her execution. So he stopped mine. How did he propose this deal to King Habibullah? Does Gulnaz know all this?

  Shekiba wondered why the king bothered to agree to it. And another question still lingered. How had he come to know Benafsha? As a concubine, her activities were limited to the harem. It wasn’t as if she had been roaming around the palace grounds. Benafsha had originally been a guard before she had caught King Habibullah’s eye and he must have seen her then.

  And Benafsha let him in? Willingly?

  You wouldn’t understand, was all she had told Shekiba. She was right about that.

  The canaries were singing—three yellow songbirds in a white wire cage suspended from a tree branch. They sang in the morning mostly, bright and melodic. Shekiba paused to listen to them, to decipher their chirps.