The Pearl that Broke Its Shell (29 page)

Shekib’s heart leapt into her throat. She froze, watching him from the corner of her eye and wondering what she should do. She gave a half smile and bowed her head just slightly, without diverting her view.

He began to speak and turned back to the friend, without changing his expression. Was he saying something about her? What could it be? Could he tell her apart from the other guards at this distance? Maybe the king had told him about her, the newest of the women-men.

Shekib realized she was smiling and turned back to face the house. She did not want anyone to see her staring at Amanullah and his friend as they walked thoughtfully through the maze of bushes and flowers. She bit her lower lip and pulled her shoulders back. An idea was beginning to take shape in her mind but it would require some work.

CHAPTER 30

S
easons changed, two years passed and I feared I was forgetting what my mother looked like. I doubted I would recognize my younger sisters if I were ever to run into them. I got updates from Khala Shaima but it usually wasn’t good news. She tempered what she told us but she felt we had a right to know. Madar-
jan
had become as much of an addict as my father. Rohila and Sitara were mostly left to fend for themselves, though my grandmother sometimes stepped in to pick up the slack. In return, Madar-
jan
was doing more work around the compound and the already strained relationship between her and her in-laws had deteriorated. Padar-
jan,
when clear-headed, made her life miserable. After all, as his mother pointed out, she wasn’t being much of a wife or mother these days.

Part of me was thankful that I wasn’t around to see what had become of my mother. Part of me wondered if things would have been different had I been sent back. Once I started that line of thinking, I could go on for days with what-if scenarios. I always ended up in the same place—wondering how things would have worked out had I never been made a
bacha posh
. I think that’s where my family started to crumble. Inevitably, I would wonder if Shahla and Parwin had the same thoughts. And if they still resented me.

I also wondered what Bibi Shekiba was planning. The walls around me were so stifling I couldn’t imagine what had given her a spark of hope.

In the meantime, I learned the rhythm of the compound and found my niche within it. The crescent moon rounded and thinned many times over as I found ways to make my life easier, though nothing changed who I was to Bibi Gulalai.

My son, Jahangir, was ten months old at the time, a miracle in his own right. Carrying him for nine months and pushing him out of my body had nearly ripped me apart. I had never seen so much blood. Jameela delivered him, as she had Shahnaz’s children. Abdul Khaliq did not like for his wives to go to hospitals and there were no midwives in our area. My husband’s wife cut the umbilical cord while I lay exhausted and stunned. I’d never felt so weak. Jameela rubbed my belly and brought thick broths of flour, oil, sugar and walnuts to my lips, urging me to drink. I faintly remember her praying over me, mumbling something about my not having the same fate as her uncle’s wives. I wonder if it was her prayers that protected me.

Jameela and Shahnaz cared for my little boy for the first week while I recovered. Even Bibi Gulalai left me alone for a while. At least I had borne a son, she said. Finally, I had done something right.

Jahangir was named after a character Abdullah, Ashraf and I had created, a figure born of our collective imaginations. Jahangir was a strong and mighty man who feared no one. He was the ultimate athlete, the strongest fighter and the cleverest person in the whole country. He was the conqueror of the world, as his name implied. We all wanted to be Jahangir. He could do anything.

It became a running joke between us. When Abdullah huffed that he couldn’t learn the newest karate move we’d seen, we told him Jahangir wouldn’t have given up so easily. When I couldn’t get the soccer ball anywhere near the goalpost, I focused my thoughts on Jahangir and how he would kick the ball. Ashraf channeled Jahangir’s persona when he tried to haggle his way through the market, gloating when he felt he’d gotten a real bargain out of a vendor.

While I was pregnant, I hadn’t given much thought to a name, as if I believed babies were born with names, just as they were born with two arms or two legs. I was so frightened by the prospect of having a baby that I didn’t care much about its name. But Jameela got me thinking.

“You must have a name and it has to
mean
something,” she said.

By the time she had finished washing the blood from my thighs, my son was named.

It took me a couple of weeks to adjust to him. I would always be grateful to Jameela for her help. Even Shahnaz, at nineteen, was an experienced mother and couldn’t resist teaching me how to feed, bathe and hold this tiny person.

I fell in love with him. Jahangir was my salvation—his face became my escape. He gave me reason to rise in the morning and to hope for tomorrow.

Khala Shaima hadn’t been by for months, which was unlike her. I worried that she might be ill but I had no way of getting in touch with her or finding out. I could only wait for her to show up again. I hadn’t even seen Parwin in about a month. I wanted them both to see Jahangir. He was starting to clap his hands and would grab on to tables to stand up. I wanted his aunt to see the things he could do now.

I had made up my mind to arrange a visit with Parwin. I had been given a little more freedom these days, now that I’d borne the family a son. Abdul Khaliq was bringing a foreigner to the house to talk business and there would be a lot of preparations to attend to. I knew I would be summoned to help the cook and servants. I decided to put off my visit until the following day.

Just after midday prayers, I began kneading the dough for dumplings when Bibi Gulalai came into the kitchen. I waited for her to point out what I was doing wrong. She looked perplexed, as if there was something she wanted to say.

“What are you doing now?”

“I’m going to roll out the dough for the
aushak,
Khala-
jan
. I finished cleaning the living room. It’s ready for tonight.”

“Yes, well, maybe… I guess that’s fine. Keep on doing what you’re doing.”

I was puzzled by her behavior. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. Why? Why do you ask that?”

“No reason, just that I… well, I was just asking,” I said, and turned my attention back to the dough. It was getting tough. It was time to cut it into ovals and stuff it with leeks and scallions.

“Fine then,” Bibi Gulalai said, and went back out the door.

That was my first clue that something was wrong. I think my mother-in-law, as cold as she was, was working up the nerve to tell me the news. She returned two hours later. This time Jameela was with her. Jahangir was crawling around the kitchen. I had blockaded off the stove, remembering how Bibi Shekiba had been burned as a child. I didn’t want my son to carry such a scar. Life was difficult for the disfigured, I’d learned.

Jahangir was pulling on my skirt hem, whining. He was hungry but I wanted to finish the
aushak
before the guests arrived. I kept an eye on him but the expression on Jameela’s face put my nerves on edge.

“Rahima, my grandchild is looking for food. I’ll have Shahnaz feed him something,” Bibi Gulalai said. She looked almost as uneasy as I felt.

“I’m done now, Khala-
jan
. I’ll make something for him,” I said nervously. “Jameela, what’s going on? What is it?”

“Oh, Rahima-
jan,
something terrible has happened! I don’t know how to share this sad news with you…”

Madar-
jan
. My mind flashed to her.

“What’s happened, Jameela? Tell me!”

“Your sister! Your sister Parwin has been taken to the hospital! She’s been very badly injured!”

Parwin?

“What hospital? How was she hurt?” I was on my feet, my son in my arms.

“I only know what I’ve heard from Bibi Gulalai.” Jameela turned to our mother-in-law, who scowled and looked away.

“Go on, tell her already!”

“They say she set herself on fire this morning…”

Nothing Jameela said registered after that. I put Jahangir on the ground as my head closed in on itself. Parwin had tried to kill herself. All I could picture was her unconvincing smile, her feeble reassurance that she was doing all right, that people were treating her well enough. Why hadn’t I gone to visit her this morning?

I pieced things together much later. Jameela took me to her house to lie down. She brought Jahangir along and one of the older girls in the house watched him while she sat with me. I asked her over and over again what happened and she explained it as best she could. Parwin had doused herself with cooking oil in the morning, while most of the women and children were eating breakfast. Her husband, Abdul Haidar, had already left the house.

Abdul Haidar’s second wife, Tuba, came to help tell me what had happened. Some things she made clear. Others she twisted in vagueness but I understood that my sister had been seen that morning with a fresh bruise on her face.

Tuba claimed they had no idea Parwin would do such a thing to herself. There were no warning signs, no red flags. She hadn’t said anything, and as a matter of fact, Tuba said Parwin had smiled at her last night. I wanted to call her a liar. I knew the empty smile Tuba was talking about. I wanted to call them blind and stupid but my tongue was tied with guilt. If I, her own sister, had ignored her behavior, what could I expect of her co-wives? What could I expect of her husband?

They had heard the screams. She’d lit the match in the courtyard and that’s where they found her, tried to cover her with a blanket to put out the flames. She’d fallen to the ground. There was a lot of confusion, screaming, trying to help. She’d passed out. They had taken her back to the house and tried to undress her, clean her burns. But it had been too much. They talked about it and talked about it and finally someone had decided that Parwin needed to go to the hospital.

The nearest hospital was not near at all. Her husband was not happy about being called back to the house to deal with the situation.

Somehow, they’d sent word to my parents.

Madar-
jan
must have been crazed with worry. Even Padar-
jan,
who had given us away for a bag of money, had been partial to his artistic daughter. The news must have shaken him. Khala Shaima had been at the house when they sent the message. She was on her way over to see me. I wanted to be with her but feared her reaction.

Please don’t make this worse, Khala Shaima
.

But Khala Shaima was our voice. She said what others dared not say. I needed her. She arrived in the evening, out of breath and teary eyed.

“Oh, my dear girl. I heard what happened! This is just awful. I can’t believe it. That poor thing!”

She hugged me tight. I could feel her clavicles press into my face. I’d never realized just how little flesh she had on her frame.

“Why did she do this, Khala Shaima! I was going to go see her today but I didn’t. How could she do such a thing?”

I shuddered thinking of how painful it must have been, how horrifyingly painful.

“Sometimes women are pushed too far, kicked too hard, and there’s no escape for them. Maybe she thought this was her only way. Oh, my poor niece!”

We all need an escape. Khala Shaima was right.

“What did my niece say?” Khala Shaima demanded. “Tell me, was she talking when she was taken to the hospital?”

Tuba shook her head. It had been an ugly scene. The smell of burning flesh, agonizing moans, hysteria. She couldn’t bring herself to describe the horror to us.

“She wasn’t talking at all? Was she conscious?”

“She was… she was just lying very still but she was awake. I was talking to her,” Tuba explained. “She was listening to me but she just wasn’t saying anything.”

“She must have been in so much pain! Allah save her, that poor thing!”

“I’m sure they will give her medicines in the hospital, Shaima-
jan
. Allah is great and I’m sure he’s watching over her.”

I resisted the urge to spit at her. Pretending. She was pretending that things hadn’t been that bad. Parwin hadn’t been in that much pain. The hospital, which was a day’s journey away and itself in woeful condition, would patch her up in no time. Allah, who had let this happen in the first place, would fix everything. It was all a game of pretend, just as Parwin had pretended every time we’d seen her. There was no honesty in our lives.

Khala Shaima began to lament. I wished she would stop. The sound of her wails made my head spin.

“You people destroyed her,” she cried. “If she dies, her blood is on the hands of this family. Do you understand? This young girl’s blood will be on your hands!”

The women were silent. Tuba bit her lip and fought back tears. I wondered if she could be honest with me.

I asked Tuba, with one mournful whisper, if my sister would live.