The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

by Nadia Hashimi

  Gulnaz nearly laughed. An evil eye could hardly find its way to Shah, with all the talismans and prayers and espand that Shekiba used in the house. It occurred to her then that Shekiba was probably worried about her. She thought on it for a moment and realized it made sense. That was why she wanted to keep Gulnaz away from her precious son!

  And so Gulnaz retaliated. She showered Shah with compliments, purposely not invoking the name of God.

  How plump his cheeks have gotten! How quickly he’s learned to roll over! He’ll be walking before you know it, Shekiba-jan.

  How well he nurses! He’ll grow up to be bigger and stronger than his father! And look at how alert and curious he is!

  Shekiba was frenzied. She knocked on wood, burned espand and prayed even more. She tried to downplay the compliments as quickly as they came.

  Oh, it’s just today. Yesterday he barely wanted to nurse at all. I don’t think he’s gained any weight in the last couple weeks. He feels so light when I lift him.

  You don’t see how skinny his legs are? He’ll probably end up short and bowlegged, at the rate he’s eating.

  Animosity simmered as Shekiba slowly realized what Gulnaz was up to. Frustrated, she decided to turn the game around. They sat in the courtyard, giving the children some sunlight while Shekiba hung the laundry on a clothesline. Gulnaz was watering the flowers.

  “Just look at Shabnam! She’s walking as if she’s been doing it for years! I bet she could run right across Kabul with those strong legs!”

  Shekiba watched Gulnaz’s mouth open slightly and her eyes widen. She mumbled something incomprehensible in return.

  “Coo coo! Coo coo!” Shabnam called out, her word for the canaries.

  “Yes, my little one, coo coo is there,” Gulnaz said without turning around.

  “Coo coo! Coo coo!”

  The two mothers turned around and saw only two yellow birds flitting about the cage. Gulnaz walked over, her head cocked to the side.

  “Where is the other? How could he have gotten . . .” Her voice trailed off as she neared the cage. “Oh no!”

  “What is it?” Shekiba said as she walked over. Gulnaz’s eyes were wide.

  “He’s dead.”

  The feathered creature lay lifeless on the floor of the cage while his roommates huddled close to one another and chirped softly. Both women were silent. The omen did not go unnoticed.

  We’re just like Aasif’s mother, Shekiba thought with a sigh. Making daggers of words.

  CHAPTER 60

  SHEKIBA

  THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN SHEKIBA AND GULNAZ had cooled now that Aasif had warmed toward his disfigured second wife. Shekiba prayed Gulnaz would have a second child, a boy, to even their score, but months and then years passed and Gulnaz had no other children. They learned to be civil with one another and make the house function as it had when Shekiba had first arrived—two wives embittered against each other.

  Shah and Shabnam made up for the relationship between their mothers. By the time Shah turned one, he was chasing after his older half sister, who giggled and watched him with a toddler’s curiosity. Shabnam was much more beautiful than her mother, her perfect curls in a ponytail behind her head and bangs that shadowed her forehead. Her cheeks were full and rosy, her eyes almond shaped and chestnut colored. She had inherited the best of her parents’ features, and a cheerful disposition that was foreign to their home.

  Shah, as Gulnaz had so facetiously predicted, grew to be strong and taller than most boys his age. He had walnut-colored hair that curled just slightly and a grin that melted hearts. The two made a perfect set of siblings, despite the rancor between their two mothers.

  In February of 1919, Shabnam was five and Shah was four. The temperature was barely above freezing. Hundreds of miles from Kabul, someone brought the country to its knees. Gulnaz and Shekiba were tending to the chores when they noticed that the streets were loud and boisterous. There were people shouting and doors slamming. Shekiba sent the kids into the house from the courtyard and opened the gate. Men were walking down the street in a hurry, consternation on their faces and arms waving wildly as they shouted.

  “No, it’s true! My brother is in the army! They have no idea who it was!”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know but it’s best to get home and stay there until we find out.”

  Shekiba closed the door and leaned against it, the metal sending icy shivers down her spine. What could have happened?

  Gulnaz met her at the inner door. The two canaries, brought inside during the winter months, tweeted loudly, egged on by the agitation in the streets.

  “What is it? What’s happening?”

  “I’m not sure. I just heard someone saying it’s best to stay home. Something is going on.”

  “Where is Aasif?”

  “God knows.”

  Four hours later, their husband showed up. The women had locked the doors and closed the windows, fearful without knowing what it was they were afraid of. His face was heavy with worry and his forehead sweaty, even in the cold.

  “Aasif! What is it? What’s happening?” Gulnaz said, meeting him at the door.

  “It’s the king. Someone’s killed Habibullah!” he announced, his voice quiet and his breaths heavy. He took off his hat and scarf.

  “Allah!” Her hand covered her mouth.

  “The city’s in a panic. I was at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs when we got word. He was on some kind of hunting trip, as usual, and he was shot. For a while, they were trying to keep it quiet, but stories began to leak out. You can’t keep something like that hidden for long! We thought it might have just been rumors—you know how easy it is to spread stories in Kabul—but it seems to be true. The army is on alert and they sent for Amanullah. Thankfully, he’s in Kabul already.”

  “The shah is . . . ,” Shekiba said incredulously. She could not bring herself to use her son’s name and “dead” in the same breath.

  “Did you not hear everything I just said!? Yes, Habibullah is dead! He’s been assassinated, the bastard.”

  His wives winced. However Aasif might have felt, it was unwise to speak ill of the dead.

  “How could this have happened? Was it here? In the palace?”

  “No, he was in Jalalabad. It must have happened two days ago at least, if word is getting to us now. I can’t believe someone killed him.”

  “What’s going to happen now?” Gulnaz said while Shekiba put a hand on her son’s head. Shah had just entered the room and looked at his father with concern. He had no idea what “dead” meant but he could sense that something was not right.

  “I don’t know. My guess is that Amanullah will take his father’s place. And he rightfully should. But it’s impossible to say. If his assassination was a coup, then his assassin will have to get through the army. They’ve sworn allegiance to Amanullah.”

  “Allah, have mercy on us. This could be a disaster for Kabul!”

  “We’ll sit tight and see. Just keep the children inside and keep your mouths shut. This is no time to speculate with the neighbors. Be smart.”

  Shekiba turned away so Aasif would not see her roll her eyes. It was hard to swallow such words of wisdom from a man who had violated the king’s harem and condemned Benafsha to a horrible death. Where was his sense of caution then?

  But they did as he said and Aasif nervously returned to his post in the Ministry of Agriculture in the morning. The streets were desolate as panic spread through the capital. Aasif stockpiled extra food as a precaution. The assassin was still unidentified and no one had made any moves toward the palace but the army was on high alert, all the same.

  Aasif had not seen Amanullah in nearly a year, but now it was critical he reconnect with his friend. He needed to pay his respects and make sure he was aligned with the man who would most likely be taking Habibullah’s place as ruler of Afghanistan. He stopped by the palace, his nerves on edge.

  Amanullah was heartbroken and enraged, Aas
if reported to his wives. His father’s brother Nasrullah had accompanied the king on his hunting trip. Word came from Jalalabad that Nasrullah had been proclaimed Habibullah’s successor, which angered Amanullah. Amanullah’s eldest brother, Inayatullah, seemed to be in support of his uncle, as were many of Habibullah’s sons.

  Amanullah, born to the king’s chief wife, knew his father would have selected him to take the throne. And as leader of the military and treasury, Amanullah was in position to assume the reins of the country and declared himself the new king from his post in Kabul.

  Shekiba could picture him, his heart heavy with grief, his noble face drawn and sad. He would be a just and wise king, she knew. She blushed to think of how stupid she had been five years ago, to think that such a man might want her.

  I have no reason to complain, though. I am married to a man with a respectable position in the Ministry of Agriculture. He keeps us fed and clothed in an esteemed neighborhood of Kabul. He provides for his children and does not beat me. What more could I have asked of Allah?

  Aasif carefully worked to bring himself closer to Amanullah and the new king welcomed his friend’s counsel in such a difficult time. He wanted to avenge his father’s death and there were a handful of people under the cloud of suspicion, including his own uncle Nasrullah, who, it was rumored, had not shed a single tear at his brother’s death. Amanullah made an announcement. He would find the assassins and bring change to Afghanistan. Reform was on the way. He banned slavery. He vowed to increase pay for the army. Afghanistan would maintain its friendly relationship with India.

  He is not like his father. He is a better man, Shekiba thought as she heard the declarations. God be with you, King Amanullah.

  By April, an investigative committee had looked into Habibullah’s murder. Amanullah jailed his uncle Nasrullah and a dozen others in the palace dungeons. Aasif stood by his friend as the palace prepared to spill blood.

  Amanullah brought with him many new ministers and Kabul braced itself for the changes that would come with their new leader. Shekiba and Gulnaz felt more secure when it became apparent that there would be no bloody challenge to Amanullah’s claim to the throne. Kabul transitioned relatively peacefully, eager to see their bold young king fulfill his promises. Shekiba smiled, ruffling her son’s hair, feeling that Amanullah would make Afghanistan better for her Shah.

  Their link to the palace revived, the Baraan family became host to some of Amanullah’s other advisers. Gulnaz served guests tea and nuts that Shekiba prepared from the safety of the kitchen. They eavesdropped on conversations, feeling privileged to have the first scoop on Kabul’s political affairs. Compared to the other wives of the neighborhood, they were much more informed, and Gulnaz, the more social wife, enjoyed flaunting it in conversations with other women. She made sure their audiences knew how well connected their household was. In a city like Kabul, connections counted for everything, so she didn’t mind the extra work that came with Aasif’s many guests.

  Gulnaz and Shekiba wished the men would talk more about Amanullah’s wife, Soraya. What they did hear was astonishing. She was educated and beautiful. She was born in Syria and spoke many languages. Amanullah took her everywhere and consulted with her. They wanted to hear more about their mysterious queen but the discussions usually centered on what Amanullah’s next move would be, since he had promised big changes when he assumed the role of king.

  “How much of Tarzi’s reforms do you think he’ll take on?”

  “He’ll take on them all, if you ask me!” Aasif said. “He thinks the world of his father-in-law, probably even more than he thought of his own father, may Allah grant him peace in heaven.”

  Gulnaz shot Shekiba a look of surprise. It seemed Aasif finally knew how to speak respectfully of Habibullah when he needed to.

  “You’re as mad as Tarzi himself. This is Afghanistan, not Europe. We are not like those people and shouldn’t try to be. Let us concentrate on our own country and stop ogling others.”

  “What’s wrong with learning from others?” someone asked.

  “Depends on what you learn from them.”

  “What’s happened with his brother Inayatullah?”

  “He and a few other brothers have sworn allegiance to Amanullah. He’s going to release them from the dungeon tomorrow. His uncle will remain in prison. There is too much doubt over his head. He’ll stay in chains for the time being.”

  “People are angry about that. They do not feel it is just.”

  “They will forget when they see what our king is capable of. Soon, they will not remember Nasrullah’s name.”

  In May, Amanullah did what Aasif had suggested many years earlier while Shekib, the guard, had eavesdropped in the gardens. Amanullah flexed his muscles and sent soldiers into northern India. Amanullah had had enough of British dominance and acted on his father-in-law’s teachings.

  “Ya marg ya istiqlal!” Demonstrators in the streets shouted for death or freedom. Gulnaz and Shekiba listened nervously, hoping the crowd would not turn on anyone.

  Amanullah had embroiled the country in the third Anglo-Afghan war. Kabul was tense. Everyone talked about the fighting. The army was small but fierce. The Baraan household braced itself. If the Afghans lost, there would surely be another regime change and it was impossible to know what that would bring.

  “It’s over,” Aasif announced as he entered the house three months later.

  “It’s over?” Shekiba repeated, a habit that drove Aasif mad. She knew it as soon as she said it but it was too late to undo. Shah ran into the living room to greet his father.

  “Yes, that’s what I said! Let me see my son! Shah, good news! It’s over. We’ve won our independence from England!”

  CHAPTER 61

  RAHIMA

  FORTY DAYS AFTER JAHANGIR’S LAST BREATH, the house was still. It was the final day of mourning.

  “The forty days will be complete today,” Bibi Gulalai reminded us. “People may come to say prayers with us or with Abdul Khaliq. Watch how you talk.”

  Shahnaz bit her lip and went to bathe her children. She kept her distance and, more important, made sure her children stayed clear of me. I made her nervous, as the mother of a dead child. Maybe I was cursed. Or maybe I would be jealous that her little ones were alive and my son was dead.

  Forty days. What was so magical about forty? I wondered. Was I to feel differently today than I did yesterday? Was I to forget what happened just six weeks ago?

  We Afghans marked both life and death with a forty-day period, as if we needed that much time to confirm either had truly happened. We had celebrated Jahangir’s birth forty days after he’d left my womb, unsure if this child was here with us to stay. And now his death. Forty days of praying, alone, with others and everything in between.

  “It’s been forty days, Rahima,” Badriya reminded me.

  “And tomorrow will be forty-one,” I shot back. Nothing would change.

  But something did change. For forty days, Abdul Khaliq had kept to himself, sitting with the many men who came to pay their respects and read with him. He didn’t look at me much. If we had been a different husband and wife, I might have approached him. I might have asked him about our son’s last breaths, about how he was feeling now. I was thankful that he’d been good to our son in his last moments but nothing more. Now, more than ever, I wanted nothing to do with him.

  On the forty-first day, the house breathed a sigh of relief. Badriya and her children no longer spoke in hushed voices. Jahangir had been given his due period of respect.

  Abdul Khaliq called for me that night. With a heavy step, I went to him. He was standing by the window, his back to me. I knew I should have closed the door behind me, but I did not. I hoped I wouldn’t have to stay.

  “Close the door,” he said, his back still turned. His voice was firm, a warning buried in his tone.

  I obeyed.

  “Come closer.”

  I wanted to scream. I wanted to run far from him, from the
scent that lingered behind his beard, from his rough hands, from the disdain in his eye.

  Haven’t I suffered enough? I wanted to yell.

  He turned around and looked at me, reading the reluctance in my face. He took another step, now within reach. I sighed and turned my head away, staring at the floor.

  A slap thundered across my cheek. My knees buckled.

  “No wife of mine looks at me in that way! How dare you?”

  My eyes watered from the stinging blow. He was angry still. His fingers gripped my arm so tight I thought my bones might snap.

  “I didn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”

  He tossed me to the floor. My right knee hit the ground first.

  “Worthless! You’ve been good for nothing since you came here! A waste. A waste of my money, my time. Look at you! A big mistake for me to take you. I should have listened to what others said but I pitied your father. He suckered me, that rat! Made me believe his girls would make decent wives. Look what’s happened! One worse than the other.”

  He was in a rage. Nothing he hadn’t before said or done, but there was a renewed enthusiasm in his vitriol. He swung again as I pulled on the edge of the bed to stand.

  “A bacha posh. I should have known better. You still don’t know what it is to be a woman.”

  I felt a trickle of blood from my lip and realized I should have anticipated this. I steeled myself for what I knew was coming. The blow that would shatter me. True or untrue, I didn’t want to hear him say it.

  “Hard to believe you could be even worse as a mother than you are as a wife! My son deserved better! He would be alive if he’d had a mother better than you!”

  I closed my eyes, a surge of pain. The worst blow. I crumpled to the floor with my hands over my head. I crouched forward, almost as if praying. He was muttering something. I couldn’t hear him over my own sobbing.

  “Do you want to be a boy? Maybe that’s what you want! Is that what you want?”

  My ribs.

  “My mother couldn’t make a woman out of you. Then maybe you should go back to what you were! That’s what you want?”