One Half from the East (6 page)

I
've been a
bacha posh
for four weeks and five days, and I've finally settled into my class. Sometimes a game of
ghursai
starts up at recess. Rahim and I play on the same field but never on the same team because pairing up might call attention to what we have in common. I'm a little better than I was during that first game, which is good because being friends with Rahim doesn't mean anything once the
attack
command rings out. I can get almost halfway to the other team's side, but I'm still one of the first to be knocked out. Every single time.

I've gone from thinking Rahim was out to get me to being best friends with him. He even introduced me to his friends, Ashraf and Abdullah, and they like me, even
though I'm younger than them.

Rahim and I meet after school a few days a week. My sisters shoot me looks over their shoulders as they trudge home. I'm allowed to stay out for a while. Now that I have Rahim to talk to, I like having this extra time, and I use it. The distance between us and my sisters widens. Once they're too far to hear, we can talk about the things that are about us and only us.

“One little letter fell off the back end of my name and my world changed. It's the smallest little letter, barely even a sound. Rahim . . . Rahima. See? If you say it fast enough, you could miss it. Who ever thought such a tiny little letter could make such a big difference?”

Rahim has a lot he wants to teach me, things he couldn't tell anyone who isn't just like him. I'm ready to listen because no one else will tell me things—not even my mother.

“How long have you been a boy?” I have so many questions to ask Rahim. Sometimes I forget the questions I thought up overnight, but it works out fine because there's always something else to ask.

“I've been a boy since I was nine years old. Not that different from you, actually.”

“You don't have any brothers?”

“If I did, I wouldn't be what I am,” he says simply. When it's just the two of us, his voice is much softer than
it is around the boys. “I'm the middle sister in my family. I've got two sisters older than me and two younger than me. Sometimes my father would pull us out of school. He didn't like that boys were following us home or teasing us. He thought people would start talking.”

I know what he means by that. Getting attention is not a good thing for girls in our village. Things were the same in Kabul, too. Even just a little attention from a stranger could get a girl dragged into the house so fast her feet might get left outside. It's almost as if all girls are born knowing what could happen, so we try to move around outside like ghosts—keeping our voices low, our footsteps light, and our eyes to the ground.

“So my aunt came up with this idea to make me a
bacha posh
. Now I come to school and no one bothers me. No one follows me. I even work after school.”

His chest puffs out as he shares that last bit with me.

“This was my aunt's idea too,” I admit. “What work do you do?”

“Do you know the electronics shop on the same block as the baker? I help out there. I'm learning a lot.”

That seems awfully grown-up to me. I wonder if the job is harder than he's making it sound. I know some kids who work in shops have it really rough, especially the ones who don't go to school at all. I'm glad we're not so poor that I have to carry bricks or sacks of rice. Fixing radios
might be interesting, but I doubt I'd be lucky enough to find something so professional-sounding.

“Do you know any other boys like us?” That's what I call
bacha posh
es now—
boys like us
.

“Lots,” he says, his eyes wide for emphasis. They've got the unmistakable sparkle of a girl, but I guess most people don't pay close attention.

“Lots? Like how many? In this school?” I look up and down the dirt street. Have I missed spotting them?

“No, no. Not here. But in other neighborhoods and in other villages.”

I wonder what it would be like to meet them or if I would even recognize one the way Rahim recognized me. I think I would now that I've met Rahim. Until I got to know him, I found it hard to believe another
bacha posh
could really exist. But knowing there are two of us makes me look at all the boys around me and wonder if I'll spot another.

Rahim adjusts the cap on his head, which makes me think of something I noticed the first day I saw my new friend.

“Hey, Rahim, what does
why-zar-dis
mean?”

Rahim spins around to look at me. He looks confused. “What did you say?”

“Your hat. I've been wondering what
why-zar-dis
means.” My words are slower this time.

Rahim erupts in thick laughter. It seems to be coming from somewhere deep in his body.

My face gets hot. I know for certain I've said the wrong thing. I want him to stop laughing. I fold my arms across my chest and wait for him to stop. When he doesn't, I kick his calf.

“Ow! What did you do that for?” he whines, rubbing his leg. He's not laughing anymore. “Come on, Obayd. It was funny. Don't be so sensitive.”

“Don't be such a jerk.”

Rahim gets like this sometimes. I know it's because he's older than me and he's been a boy longer, but it's still annoying. He's like Khala Aziza, my
Let me tell you what you should do
aunt.

“It's
wizards
,” he says plainly, which is just about as good as an apology. “My cousin in America sent me this hat. It's a basketball team over there.”

“Oh.”

We keep walking. It's late afternoon and Rahim is walking me home—something he always does. He says it's because he likes walking, but I know he's looking out for me too. I really like having a best friend who's older than me. Rahim looks out for me the way my oldest sister, Neela, does, but it's also different—more like an older brother, I guess.

“Does the name mean something?”

“No. I mean, I don't know.” Rahim says it quickly. It's not like him not to have an answer. It occurs to me that he shouldn't have laughed so hard at the way I said it.

When we reach the metal door of my home, we pause.

“Do you want to come in?” I ask him because I know that's what my mother would do if she were walking home with a friend. I can only imagine what my sisters would say to Rahim. They've seen him from a distance at school, far enough that they wouldn't ever suspect his true identity. But sitting next to me, my sisters would recognize him quickly, knowing I wouldn't bring an actual boy home. I picture my sisters with antennae buzzing on their heads. The image is so funny, I have to bite my lip not to laugh. It's too much to explain to Rahim, who is carefully considering our front door. He tries to see over the clay wall that hides our courtyard and home from view. He takes a deep breath.

“I think I'd better get home,” he says. “My mother worries if I stay out too late.”

I nod. I was just being polite anyway.

A mother and daughter walk hurriedly past us, the young girl's hand held tightly by her mother's. Their skirts are long, their head scarves draped over their shoulders and falling past their hips. Their feet shuffle as they try to move quickly. It is late in the afternoon and the streets are starting to quiet.

There's something else I've been wanting to ask Rahim. Something I probably shouldn't be thinking about now, but I can't help it.

“Rahim, can I ask you something? What's going to happen to you? When are they going to change you back?”

Rahim's face gets really serious. His eyelids lower and his lips tighten. He stuffs his hands deep into his pockets and I worry that I've asked something I shouldn't have.

“Never,” my best friend says with so much fire that I get a little nervous for him. “I'll never be a girl again.”

T
here's a yelping noise.

“Get away from him!” Rahim calls out. We're walking home from school, blowing on our hands to keep them warm. It's starting to get really cold out. Winter's not far away.

I turn to see what Rahim's yelling about. Two older boys are chasing after a stray dog. They corner him in an alley and one boy picks up a small stone. The dog's a mud-covered mutt with patchy hair. He's cowering, looking for a way out.

“Leave him alone!” Rahim yells again. He charges at the boys. They turn, surprised. I can see their faces become knotted with anger.

“Rahim, wait! What are you doing?”

He ignores me. He's already in front of the dog, who is backing away from Rahim, too. He's not sure if he's got any friends.

“Leave the dog alone, you brutes!” Rahim's hands are balled up. One of the boys takes a step toward him and gives him a shove. Rahim shoves him back. I'm terrified but run to my friend's side.

“Stop!” I yell. I don't know what else I can do.

“What's your problem? Is this dog your sister or something?” The boy jeers.

“No, he's the child your mother wished she'd had instead of you,” Rahim shoots back. I'm impressed. And nervous.

The dog senses his opportunity and scampers away.

The boy swings at Rahim's head, but my friend ducks backward and the boy stumbles to the ground. He comes after Rahim again. Rahim kicks at his leg and the boy grabs his shin, howling in pain. His friend looks at us and charges at Rahim. Without thinking, I stick my leg out and trip him. He falls flat on his face. Rahim looks at me. He doesn't have to say it. I know what he's thinking.

We run as fast as we can. Our girl legs are light and quick. The boys chase us down one street, but when we make our second turn, they give up. Once we're sure we've lost them, we rest against a wall and catch our breath.

“I can't believe you did that!” Rahim laughs.

“I can't believe it either,” I admit.

“That dog looked so sad. I didn't want to see them hit it with a rock. Thanks for backing me up.”

“You're my friend, Rahim. I wouldn't leave you to fight those boys alone.”

“You fought a boy and won, Obayd.” Rahim grabs my hands excitedly. “Isn't that great? Doesn't it feel really good? We took down a couple of boys! Let him explain to his friends that his hands and face got all scraped up when he got taken down by a couple of girl-boys.”

This is one of our best days so far as boys.

I enter the living room, still feeling really good. As usual, my father's not there.

“Obayd, good. You're finally here.”

“
Salaam,
Mother.”

“My son, take a plate of food to your father, would you? He didn't want to eat earlier, but maybe his appetite will pick up if he sees you.”

I toss my backpack against the wall.

My sisters are sitting on the floor cushions. Their notebooks are splayed across the burgundy carpet like butterfly wings.

“When is he going to come out of that room?” I ask. I kind of want to tell him what I just did, though I don't
know what he'll say about it.

The leaves on the chinar tree outside have gone from green to orange and yellow and red and now they're falling to the ground. The season is shifting and changing, just like me. I have both hands on my hips and my chin nudged forward in my best boy pose. My sisters look at me. Meena rolls her eyes, Alia giggles, and Neela pretends not to notice.

“This is not easy for him, Obayd.” My mother sounds tired. “Your father loved putting on his uniform every morning. He felt good when he was working. He earned money that fed us, bought our clothes, and kept us in a decent apartment. He doesn't have that now. And when you have no reason to leave the house, you have no way of coming home happy.”

“But it's not his fault.”

“Of course it isn't. But it's hard to tell a one-legged man that it's time to stand up.”

I think I know how my father feels. Rahim seems to think we can stand like boys, but sometimes I wonder if he and I have everything it takes to do that.

There is a large plate of rice and lentils and a bowl of curried vegetables. I pour the saucy mix over the pile of rice and pick out a spoon and fork. I take it into the bedroom, balancing everything so I can knock on the door frame and announce myself. There isn't an actual door, just an opening where a door should be, which is kind
of like my father—there's just empty pant where his leg should be.

My father is curled up on his side, his face to the window so I can't see it.

“Padar,” I say softly. I take two steps in. The explosion in Kabul blew out one of my father's eardrums, too, so he can't hear very well. I make my voice a little louder. “Padar?”

“Mm. What is it?”

“I've brought you some dinner.”

“Not hungry.”

“Mother says you haven't eaten yet.”

“I'll eat when I'm hungry.”

I stand there for a moment and feel myself getting angry with my father. I know he's missing a leg, but what about the rest of him? He's got hands and arms and a whole other leg that he could be using. It's like everything good, all his smiles and jokes, were in that leg, and when the bomb went off it sent all of it flying away.

Is he going to stay like this forever?

I blurt something out before I have a chance to give it a second thought.

“When are you going to get up?”

My father isn't fazed by the frustration in my voice.

“Padar, why don't you sit with us? Why don't you even listen to your radio anymore?”

When he doesn't answer, I feel myself getting angrier and then scared that he's so mad he won't even talk to me anymore.

“Padar?”

“Didn't you hear your mother, Obayd?” he says in a flat voice. “You can't tell a one-legged man to stand up.”

I
t's the end of the school year and the start of a three-month break from classes. I've always liked winter, even if it does come with some problems. In Kabul, the snow would mix with dirt and turn the streets into a brown, slushy disaster. It's doing the same thing here in our village. I don't mind because there's a lot of good stuff that comes with the snow too, like snow games and holidays and air that's crisp.

It is my first winter as a boy. Now that I've been one for almost two months, I can't wait for the adventures this new season will bring.

Rahim knocks on my door with his friends Abdullah and Ashraf. Rahim told me that they've always known he's
not a full boy and that they never seemed to care. While that makes them some of the nicest guys I've ever met, I still feel a little jealous when they're around because it means Rahim splits his attention three ways and I don't get the biggest share. Rahim is Abdullah's best friend too. What I really like about Rahim is that even when he's got all of us around him, he still makes me feel like I'm more than just a regular friend. I feel really good about that, especially since I'm three years younger.

Since we don't have school, Rahim invites me to play in the snow with them. I put on an extra shirt and a sweater to keep me warm under my coat. It's so cold out that my nose starts to run and my eyes tear. My face is a wet mess, which makes me feel even colder. I'm still happy, though.

I follow the boys into the street. There's nearly a foot of snow on the ground and it's still coming down. We are jogging down the street, but our feet get stuck in the snow and we have to make tall, high steps to get anywhere. My toes are starting to go numb when I feel a whack on my left shoulder. Abdullah is grinning.

“Hey!” I call out. Before I can say another word, I feel a thump against my chest. Ashraf teams up with Abdullah. Rahim moves closer to me to even things out. He's already rolling a snowball in his hands and taking aim.

“Don't just stand there, Obayd,” he yells at me. “Fight back!”

My snowballs are mostly fluff and land at Ashraf's feet or fly over Abdullah's shoulder instead of making any contact. Rahim is really good and makes enough hits that it almost seems like an even fight when it really isn't.

I watch the boys and learn a few tricks. Abdullah digs out snow closer to the ground so it's already more packed. Ashraf and Rahim rub their bare hands on the snowball's surface, which makes it ice over. Those are the snowballs that sting through the two shirts, the sweater, and the coat I'm wearing.

The day after my first snowball fight, I count seven purple welts on my body. They are round and hurt when I press on them, but I feel pretty good about them. They're like badges of honor.

Two weeks into winter, Rahim doesn't have to do all the work in our snow battles. My snowballs are deadly.

On another day, we wander through town and find a group of older boys. They've started a fire in a big tin can using sticks, newspaper, and oil. Abdullah is with them and waves us over. They make room for us and we stand in a tight circle, warming our hands over the flames. I like the way the fire snaps and jumps. I also like being part of this circle, even if I am the shortest one here. With my coat and knit hat, I blend in even with the older boys.

The boys have collected loose papers and leaflets to
feed the fire. I notice a page of cartoon drawings and English writing. There's a word that catches my eye because I've been staring at those letters for the past two months.
W
-
I
-
Z
-
A
-
R
-
D
-
S
. Just like Rahim's cap.

Above the word is a cartoon drawing of an old man with a wrinkled face and a long beard. There are other cartoon drawings with words underneath them. It's some kind of booklet used to teach English. Our school in Kabul used similar ones.

Rahim's standing right next to me so I elbow him. He's talking to Abdullah when I interrupt.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Look at this.” I point to the picture and the word below it. “Like your hat. I thought you said it was the name of a basketball team?”

Rahim looks at the page in my hand.

“It is . . .” he mutters. I can tell the picture doesn't make any sense to him, either.

“Why would they name a basketball team after old men with beards? This guy looks like a great-grandfather.”

Rahim has this look on his face that tells me whatever he's about to say is probably not true—or at least not totally true.

“Because . . . they probably named the team after some old guy that used to play basketball when he was young. You know, like the way the Gardens of Babur are named
after Babur.” Rahim points at the black-and-white drawing I'm holding. “This guy's name must be Wizard.”

One of the older boys overhears us. He sees the skeptical look on my face.

“What are you two looking at?”

“It's nothing,” Rahim says, and rubs his hands together over the fire. He shivers a little. “Just some pictures.”

This is my chance to get some older boys to tell me what they think. They might know something Rahim doesn't.

“Here, look at this,” I say, passing the paper over to the boy on the opposite side of the circle. I'm careful not to reach directly over the flames so my coat doesn't catch fire. The boy, who is old enough to have a thin mustache, takes the page from me. “Rahim says that's an old man who used to play basketball.”

The boy laughs.

“Basketball? You don't know what a wizard is, do you?” he asks Rahim.

Rahim's face gets hot with anger.

“Yes, I do! It's the name of a basketball team,” he barks, pointing at his hat. “My cousin from America told me so.”

“It might be that, too, but a wizard is a magician. He's an old guy who can cast spells or make things disappear. Do you really think this guy looks like an athlete?” He rolls up the paper and tosses it into the fire. Rahim and I stare as the flames turn its edges black and eat it up.

A magician. Rahim's got a magician's hat?

Rahim's hat is suddenly a lot more interesting than it has been. Maybe that's why I was drawn to it when I first met him.

Rahim and I walk home together, since his home is not far from mine.

“That's cool, isn't it? Your hat says
magician
.”

Rahim nods. He's forgiven me (mostly) for pointing out to all the older boys that he had no idea what he was talking about earlier.

“Maybe the hat gives you some special powers. If I had special powers, I'd turn myself into a basketball player. Or maybe I'd make huge platters of food appear out of nowhere. What would you do if you could be a magician? Would you turn yourself into a bird? A tiger?”

“Nah,” Rahim says. He looks up at the rim of his cap. His ears and the top of his nose are bright red with cold. “I'd do something else.”

“Like what?”

Rahim doesn't say another word. He doesn't have to. I know what he would turn himself into if he had the power.