The Pearl that Broke Its Shell (12 page)

“How are you to pay for this? How many people will be with him? Surely, there will be at least a dozen pretentious mouths to feed!”

“There is a price to pay for everything but it is a chance I could not let escape. Sharifullah has been
hakim
of this province for long enough. It is pure good fortune that he has traveled across the country now to attend the funeral of his cousin.”

“Good fortune for you!” Azizullah laughed. “But not for his cousin!”

“Forget about his cousin, dear brother. The point is that this is a chance for our family to reach the next level. That is what our father would have wanted to see, may Allah forgive him and keep him in peace. If I am made
hakim,
we will control the entire province! Imagine the life we would have.”

“You would be an excellent
hakim,
certainly. And from what I have heard, many of the villages are displeased with Sharifullah’s rulings.”

“The man is spineless. The kingdom would all but forget our province were it not for the crops our land produces every season. Sharifullah has done nothing for us! When Agha Sobrani and Agha Hamidi disputed that land by the river, it was his idiotic idea that they should each take half.”

Shekiba listened as she gathered the empty teacups and brought the dish of nuts closer to the men.

“Now, neither Sobrani nor Hamidi has any respect for him. They are equally dissatisfied with him. He should have given the land to Hamidi. His claim was reasonable and his family carries more clout than Sobrani’s. Better to have Hamidi’s full support and anger only Sobrani!”

Irrefutable logic. Shekiba quietly crept out of the room. She had grown accustomed to Hafizullah’s animated speeches and found him entertaining in some way. At the same time, she was thankful that Allah hadn’t placed her in his custody, as she was certain he was a brute in his home.

As soon as she left the room, she heard Hafizullah’s tone change. She stopped and tilted her ear toward the living room.

“And how are things going with your new help? Shekiba-
e-shola
is fulfilling her duties around the house?”

“Well enough,” Azizullah answered. “Marjan has not had many grievances about her.”

“Hmmph. That family must be so relieved to have unloaded her. From what I have heard, Bobo Shahgul was heartbroken at her son’s passing. Could not bear to have his child in her home because she was a constant reminder of her dead son.”

“You would have heard more than me. The girl does not speak of her family. Actually, she hardly speaks at all. She has that much sense.”

“At least your wife doesn’t have to worry about your taking her as a second wife!” Hafizullah joked, slapping his hand on his thigh loudly.

“No, she is not for marriage. She is able-bodied and does the work of a man. Sometimes it escapes us that she is, in fact, a girl. Her strength makes me marvel. I saw her just a few days ago carrying three pails of water and walking straight, as if it were no effort whatsoever. Her uncles told me she had been keeping up her father’s farm along with him.”

“More useful than a mule. Good,” Hafizullah said. “Whatever happened to her father? I remember running into him just after his children were taken in the cholera wave. He looked terrible. Too sensitive, that man was.”

“His brother told me that he had not been feeling well in the last few months. Agha Freidun told me they had a conversation and he knew his time was coming. He made arrangements for his daughter to live with Bobo Shahgul and distributed his land, his tools and his animals among his brothers.”

Shekiba’s eyes widened.

A lie! My father had no such conversation!

He had not seen his brothers after her mother died. She wondered if this story was Kaka Freidun’s idea or Bobo Shahgul’s. Her family was swooping in to pick up any scraps her father had left behind.

That land should be mine. My grandfather gave it to my father. My father wanted nothing to do with his family. I should be the owner of that land.

Shekiba wondered where the deed was. The deed was a simple document signed by her grandfather, her father, a few distant relatives and a village elder to confirm the transaction. Surely her uncles must have been looking for it when they dumped the contents of the house outside.

“Shekiba? What are you doing here?”

Teacups rattled in Shekiba’s startled hands. Marjan had come up behind a very distracted Shekiba. She looked puzzled to see her frozen a few feet away from the living room.

“
I just… chai… ,
” she mumbled, and headed directly for the kitchen, her head bowed to conceal her hurt eyes.

The scent of cumin and garlic filled the room. Azizullah and his brother shared their meal, tearing off chunks of flatbread and picking up morsels of rice and meat. Shekiba wondered if any would be left for the rest of the family. Meat was hard to come by, even in this household, and it seemed that the men were going to finish the week’s stock in one sitting.

Her mind began to wander as she dried the pots. What would happen if she were to try to claim that land? The thought almost made her laugh. Imagine that. A young woman trying to claim her father’s land, snatching it from her uncles’ greedy claws. She tried to imagine taking the deed to the local judge. What would he say? Most likely he would kick her out. Call her insane. Maybe even send her back to her family.

But what if he didn’t? What if he listened to her? Agreed with her? Maybe he would think it was her right to have her father’s land.

Marjan was in the kitchen with her. She was sifting through the rice for any small stones.

“Khanum Marjan?” Shekiba said meekly.

“Yes?” Marjan paused and looked up. Shekiba spoke so rarely, one had to take notice.

“What happens to a daughter when her father… if her father has some land… if he is not…”

Marjan pursed her lips and cocked her head. She could sense the question buried in Shekiba’s ramblings.

“Shekiba-
jan,
you are asking a ridiculous question. Your father’s land will go to his family, since your brothers are dead, may Allah grant them peace.” Marjan’s response was blunt but it was reality—regardless of what the laws might say. Her candor gave Shekiba confidence to speak openly.

“But what about me? Am I not rightfully an heir to the land? I am his child too!”

“You are his daughter. You are not his son. Yes, the law says that daughters may inherit a portion of what the son would inherit but the truth is that women do not claim land. Your uncles, your father’s brothers, have no doubt taken the property.”

Shekiba let out a frustrated sigh.

“My dear girl, you are being quite ridiculous. What do you think you would do with a piece of land? First of all, you are living here now. This is your place. Secondly, you are unmarried and no woman could possibly live on a piece of land alone! That is simply absurd.”

I lived alone on that land for months. It didn’t feel absurd. It felt like home.

But Marjan could not know about her time alone. Shekiba did not dare share the details, knowing it was unspeakable for her to have done so. No reason to give the village more fodder for gossip.

“But if I were a son?” she asked, unwilling to let the matter go completely.

“If you were a son, you would inherit the land. But you are not a son and you cannot be a son and your life is now here as part of this home. You are asking questions that will invite nothing but anger. Enough!” Marjan needed to put a stop to the discussion. If her husband heard them, he would surely be displeased. If these were the kinds of thoughts that ran through her head, Marjan was thankful Shekiba did not speak more often.

But I have always been my father’s daughter-son. My father hardly knew I was a girl. I have always done the work a son would do. I am not to be considered for a wife, so what is the difference? What of me is a girl?

Shekiba gritted her teeth.

I have lived alone. I have no need for anyone.

Azizullah’s family had been relatively kind to her but Shekiba was restless. She felt freshly resentful of her family.

I cannot go on like this forever. I must find a way to make a life for myself.

CHAPTER 12

T
oo often, I missed the opportunity to learn from Bibi Shekiba’s story. She was determined to make a life for herself and I seemed determined to unravel the one I had.

I wonder how long I would have gone on as a boy had Madar-
jan
not seen us on that day. Most children who were made
bacha posh
were changed back into girls when their monthly bleeding started but Madar-
jan
had let me go on, bleeding but looking like a boy. My grandmother warned her it was wrong.
Next month,
my mother would promise. But I was too useful to her, to my sisters, to the whole family. She couldn’t bear to give up having someone who could do for her what my father wouldn’t. And I was happy to continue playing soccer and practicing tae kwon do with Abdullah and the boys.

We didn’t have any hot pepper at home and Padar-
jan
liked his food spicy. Those peppers changed everything for me.

Abdullah, Ashraf, Muneer and I were coming down our small street. The boys walked with us and then continued on to go to their own homes, smaller than ours but in as poor condition. People in our neighborhood weren’t starving but we all thought twice before throwing a scrap to a stray dog. This was how it had been for years. Some days we walked lazily. Other days we were boisterous and raced each other to the tin can, to the old lady, to the house with the blue door.

Abdullah and I stayed close together. In our circle of friends, we had something different. Something a little more. His arm across my shoulder, he would lean past me and tease Ashraf. I was a
bacha posh
but it had gone on too long, like a guest who had grown too comfortable to leave.

It was Ashraf who had started it. He had kicked his leg up into the air, though not as high as he thought it went. We tried to tell him he could barely reach our waists but he was certain he saw his foot swoop past our faces. Muneer shook his head. He was tired of Ashraf practicing on him.

We were fans of martial arts. We’d seen some magazines with fighters in different poses, their feet higher than their heads, their arms fired forward. We wanted to be like them and flipped through the pages copying their stances.

We had fought this way before. All of us. Playfully and without giving it much thought. I had started wrapping a tight cloth around my breast buds. I didn’t want the boys to notice them or comment on them. It was awkward enough that my voice had not begun to change as theirs had. Sometimes I came away with bruises. Once, my ankle twisted in under me as I ducked a kick from Ashraf. For one week, I limped from home to school and back. I told Madar-
jan
I’d tripped on a rock, knowing I couldn’t tell her how it had really happened.

But it was worth it. Worth it for that moment when, inevitably, Abdullah would have me cornered, or would twist my arm behind me and I could feel his breath on my neck. Somewhere inside I tingled to be that close to him. I didn’t want him to let go, even if I could feel my arm pulling from its socket. I reached out and grabbed at his other arm, feeling his adolescent muscles flex under my fingers. When I was close enough to smell him, to smell the sweat on his neck, I felt dangerous and alive. That’s why it was often me who started the sparring. I loved where it put me.

That was what we were doing when Madar-
jan
came out of the neighbor’s house, a fistful of red peppers in her right hand and the corner of her
chador
in her left hand. It couldn’t have been worse. She spotted us just as he’d tripped my foot. I lost my balance and fell to the ground. I looked up and saw Abdullah’s handsome grin as he, victorious yet again, straddled me and laughed.

“Rahim!”

I heard my mother’s voice, sharp and horrified. I saw her faded burgundy dress out of the corner of my eye. I felt my stomach drop.

Abdullah must have seen the look on my face. He jumped to his feet and looked over at my mother. Her face confirmed that something had gone wrong. He reached his hand out to me so I could get up.

“That’s all right,” I mumbled, and got to my feet, dusting off my pants and trying to avoid my mother’s accusing eyes.

“
Salaam,
Khala-
jan,
” Abdullah called out. Ashraf and Muneer were reminded of their manners and echoed the same. She turned abruptly and went through our front gate.

“What happened? Your mother seems upset.”

“Ah, it’s nothing. She’s always telling me that I come home with my clothes filthy. More to wash, you know.”

Abdullah looked skeptical. He knew a mother’s angry face and could tell there was something more behind this.

I didn’t want to go home. I knew Madar-
jan
was upset but if I delayed facing her, things would be worse.

I couldn’t look at Abdullah, already feeling my face flush. My mother had seen something different than everyone else. She had seen her daughter pinned under a boy in the middle of the street. Few sights could have been more shameful.