The Pearl that Broke Its Shell (21 page)

“
Yaa Musabbibal Asaabi.
”

Khala Shaima corrected him again.

“
Asbaabi,
Mullah-
sahib
.” Her tone was that of an annoyed schoolteacher. It didn’t go unnoticed.

I feared Padar-
jan
would make good on his threat to cut out Khala Shaima’s tongue. I was nervous for her.

“Shaima-
jan,
please have a little respect for our esteemed
mullah
here,” Boba-
jan
said.

“I have the utmost respect for him,” she said facetiously. “And I have the utmost respect for our Qur’an, as I’m sure you all do. What a disservice it would be for us to recite the verse incorrectly.”

Once more, the
mullah
sighed and cleared his throat.

“
Yaa Musabbibal Asbaabi Yaa Mufattihal Abwaabi.
”

“That’s better,” Khala Shaima interrupted loudly. I could hear the satisfaction in her voice.

We could hear the men beginning the
nikkah
in the next room. Padar-
jan
was giving his full name, his father’s name and his grandfather’s name to be written on the marriage contract.

Parwin tried to put on a strong front, seeing Madar-
jan
’s condition. Khala Shaima, our only advocate in the
nikkah,
had strategically positioned herself between my grandfather and Abdul Khaliq’s mother. No one knew what to make of her presence. Padar-
jan
huffed in frustration but thought it best not to make a scene in front of his guests.

Madar-
jan
spoke softly. We had formed a tight circle in the next room.

“My daughters, I prayed this day would not come so soon for you but it is here and I’m afraid there’s nothing I or Khala Shaima can do to stop this. I suppose this is God’s will for you. Now, I haven’t had much time to prepare you, but you are young women,” she said, hardly believing her own words. “Your husbands will expect things of you. As a wife, you have an obligation to your husband. It won’t be easy at first but… but with time you’ll learn how to… how to tolerate these things that Allah has created for us.”

When Madar-
jan
began to cry, we cried as well. I didn’t want to know what it was Madar-
jan
was talking about. It sounded like it was something terrible.

“Please don’t cry, my girls. These things are a part of life—girls are married and then become part of another family. This is the way of the world. Just as I came to your father’s home.”

“Can I come back sometimes, Madar-
jan
?” Parwin asked.

Madar-
jan
exhaled slowly, her throat thick and tight.

“Your husband will want you at home but I hope that he is a man of heart and will bring you here from time to time to see your mother and your sisters.”

This was as much as she could promise. Parwin and I sat on either side of our mother, her hands stroking our hair. I had my hands on her knee. Shahla kneeled in front of us, her head resting on Madar-
jan
’s lap. Rohila and Sitara watched on nervously, Rohila understanding that something was about to happen.

“Now, my girls, there’s one more thing. There will be other wives to deal with. Treat them well and I pray they will show kindness to you. Older women are spiteful toward younger girls, so be careful how much you trust them. Make sure you take care of yourselves. Eat, bathe, say your prayers and cooperate with your husbands. And your mothers-in-law. These are the people whom you will need to keep satisfied.”

A voice bellowed from the next room.

“Bring the eldest girl! Her husband, Abdul Sharif, is waiting. May their steps together as husband and wife be blessed. Congratulations to both your families.”

“Shahla!” my father called out unceremoniously.

Shahla wiped the tears from her face and bravely pulled her
chador
over her head. She kissed my mother’s face and hands before she turned to us, her sisters. I squeezed my sister and felt her breath in my ear.

“Shahla… ,” was all I could get out.

It was Parwin’s turn next. They started over again, a new contract. For the sake of tradition, they repeated all the same questions, wrote down all the same names.

“
Agha-sahib,
” Khala Shaima interrupted again. “Allah has given my niece a lame leg and I can tell you better than anyone else that it is not easy to manage with such a disability. It would be in this girl’s best interests for her to have some time to go to school, to learn to manage physically, before she is made into a wife.”

Abdul Khaliq’s father was taken aback by the sudden objection, as were the others in the room.

“This has been discussed and I think my nephew has been more than generous in agreeing to give this girl a chance to be the wife of a respected man. School will not fix her lame leg, as it has not fixed your hunched back. Let’s continue.”

The
nikkah
resumed.

“Bring the girl! May Allah bless this
nikkah
and Abdul Khaliq, who has made this possible. May God give you many years, Abdul Haidar, for agreeing to take on a wife in the tradition of our beloved Prophet, peace be upon him. And a disabled wife at that; truly you are a great man, Abdul Haidar. What a relief this must be for your family, Arif-
jan
.”

Madar-
jan
kissed Parwin’s forehead and stood up slowly, as if the ground was pulling her back. Parwin stood up and straightened her left leg as best she could. Madar-
jan
whispered to Parwin things she hated to say.

“Parwin-
jan,
my sweet girl, remember to do your chores in your new home. There may not be time for drawing, and sing softly and only to yourself. They’ll say things to you, just as the others always have, about your leg, but pay no attention, my daughter.”

“
Agha-sahib,
you are keeping this man waiting. Please bring him his new bride,” the
mullah
ordered.

“Bring her out!” My father’s voice was cold and loud as he tried to assert control. Madar-
jan
’s delaying made him look small in front of the
mullah
and Abdul Khaliq’s family, as if Khala Shaima’s behavior hadn’t been enough.

“Please, my sweet daughter. Remember these things that I’ve told you. May Allah watch over you now,” she whimpered, brushing away Parwin’s tears and then her own. She fixed Parwin’s
chador
and had her hold it close under her chin before she turned her around and led her down the hallway and into the living room, where she became the wife of a man as old as my father.

I sat in the room with Rohila and Sitara. I listened to Parwin try to mask her limp, lifting her left leg so it wouldn’t drag along the floor as it usually did. Our cousins always teased her, as did the children in the neighborhood. Even for those few months when she attended school, her classmates had mocked her gait and the teacher had doubted she would learn anything, as if walking and reading were related. They wouldn’t treat her well, we knew. Our hearts broke for her.

“Rahim, where is Parwin going?” Sitara asked.

I looked at my youngest sister. She still called me by my
bacha posh
name.

“It’s Rahima,” Rohila reminded her. Her vacant eyes stayed glued to the door, willing Parwin to come back.

“Rahima, where did Parwin go?” Sitara asked again.

“She’s… she’s gone to live with a new family.” I couldn’t say words like “marriage” or “husband” in the same sentence with my sister’s name. It sounded awkward. Like a little girl wearing her mother’s shoes.

I knew my mother was watching Parwin from behind the doorway. Their voices faded as they walked out the door. I went to the window to see my sister one last time. Because of her limp, she was shorter than any other fourteen-year-old girl and looked to be half the size of her new husband. I shuddered to think how she would feel to be alone with him.

“When will she come back?”

I looked at my sisters blankly. Madar-
jan
returned, drained. I was next. Khala Shaima had not succeeded in saving my sisters from Abdul Khaliq’s family. I knew I shouldn’t hope for any better, but I did.

I wish I could say that I put on as strong a front as Shahla or even Parwin, at least for my mother’s sake. I wish I could have done something. After all, I’d been a boy for years. Boys were supposed to defend themselves and their families. I was more than just a girl, I thought. I was a
bacha posh
! I had been practicing martial arts with my friends in the streets. I didn’t have to crumple as my sisters had.

My father had to drag me from my mother’s arms while I cried, the
chador
falling from my head and revealing my absurdly short hair. Abdul Khaliq’s family watched in consternation. This didn’t bode well. My father dug his fingers into my arm. I only know because I saw the bruises later.

I tried to pull my arms away, kick my legs, twist my body away. It wasn’t the same as play-fighting with the boys. My father was stronger than Abdullah.

All we managed to do was embarrass my father. My mother sobbed, her hands in powerless fists. Khala Shaima shook her head and shouted that this,
all
of this, was wrong, a sin. She didn’t stop until my father slapped her across the face. She reeled backward. Our guests looked on, feeling it was well deserved. My father had redeemed himself in their eyes.

My struggle changed nothing. I just made it harder on my mother. And Khala Shaima.

My father handed me over to my new husband. My mother-in-law stared with a critical eye. She would have a lot of work to do to set me straight.

And Abdul Khaliq, my new husband, smirked to see me squirm under my father’s grip. As if he liked what he saw.

That was my wedding.

CHAPTER 22

“F
irst things first. You need a proper bath.”

Shekiba stood before a heavyset woman with cropped dark hair. She looked to be in her twenties. She wore ballooned pants and boots with a button-down shirt. If it weren’t for her voice, Shekiba would have believed her to be a man. As it was, Shekiba was baffled and had been since Kabul came into view.

Never could she have imagined such a place. All the homes and shops of her village could have fit in Kabul’s belly. There were streets lined with stores, striped awnings and men walking through the maze of roads. There were houses with colorful doors at the front gate. People turned and raised their hands, a respectful acknowledgment of the king’s entourage passing through. Kabul was a spectacle!

When the royal compound came into view, Shekiba’s mouth gaped. The gated entrance was flanked by stone pillars, layer after layer before the palace itself came into view. Through the main entrance, a wide path encircled an imposing tower. Shekiba craned her neck to get a good view.

That tower just about reaches the heavens!

The palace’s façade was embellished with carvings and arches, polished and bright. Bushes and greenery lined the path, including the portico that cut through the tower. The palace was an impressive structure with more windows than she had ever seen and incomparable in size to any home Shekiba had ever beheld.

Soldiers guarded every corner. It was only when they came to the entrance of the palace that Shekiba actually saw King Habibullah. On the ride to Kabul, he had been at the head of the caravan, riding in the magnificent carriage that had been stationed outside Hafizullah’s house. When they disembarked, Shekiba was sent in a different direction but she caught sight of him entering a main door.

That’s the king,
Shekiba thought.

He was a stocky man with a thick beard. He wore a military uniform with a row of medals pinned across his left chest and tassels at his shoulders. A broad yellow sash crossed from his right shoulder to his left hip and covered some of the stars on his jacket. A striped belt and medallion clasp sat snugly across the middle of his belly and a tall hat of sheep’s wool added five inches to his stature. The soldiers stood at attention for King Habibullah’s return.

Shekiba wondered if she would ever cross paths with him in this enormous place.

“Follow me.”

A soldier took her around the corner, behind the palace, where the path opened into a verdant and majestic courtyard. Shekiba’s eyes widened. The courtyard had small ponds, flowering bushes and fruit trees. They followed a footpath that led to a smaller stone house, still much larger than even Agha Azizullah’s home. The soldier knocked on the door and a guard answered.

“Take her. She is to be a guard with you. Fix her up.” The guard nodded and waited for the soldier to turn before the door opened wide.

“Come in.”

A woman!
Shekiba stood motionless.

“I said come in! What are you doing standing there?”

Shekiba’s feet unfroze and she followed the woman-man into the room. There were three women sitting on cushions around the floor, each older than Shekiba but younger than any of her uncle’s wives. They had stopped their conversation when she entered. Shekiba noticed four other guards in the room. Were they women too?