The Pearl that Broke Its Shell (5 page)

Everyone wanted control but it was hard to get. The only one who seemed to have any was Abdul Khaliq Khan, the warlord. He and his militia were able to gain control of our town and the neighboring towns, having pushed back their rivals. We were north of Kabul and hadn’t seen any fighting in about four years but from what we heard, Kabul was besieged. People in our town shook their heads in dismay at the news but our homes were already pockmarked and turned to rubble. It was time for the privileged in Kabul to taste what we had survived.

Those were ugly times. I can only imagine what my father must have seen from the time he was just a teenage boy. Like so many others, he numbed himself to the ugliness with the “medicine” that Madar-
jan
referred to. He clouded his mind with the opium that Abdul Khaliq kept around, as crucial to his men’s ability to wage war as the ammunition strapped to their backs.

Madar-
jan
grew weary of our father but all she could do was look after us girls. Khala Shaima brought her some concoction that she took so she wouldn’t have any more children after me. I don’t know what the medicine was, but it worked for six years. When Madar-
jan
felt her belly stretch again, she prayed and prayed and did all the things that Khala Shaima told her to do. Nothing worked. Disappointed and fearful, she named our youngest sister Sitara and dreaded the day that Padar-
jan
would come home to find out she had brought yet another daughter into his home.

Then came the Taliban. They were just another faction in the civil war but they gained in strength and their regime crept across the country. It didn’t affect us much until we were pulled out of school, windows were blackened and music was banned. Madar-
jan
sighed but carried on, her daily routine largely unaffected by the new codes.

When word got out that our town had fallen to the Taliban, Abdul Khaliq brought his men home to fight back—and to defend his honor as a warlord. There were weeks of explosions, crying, burying, and then the men came home, victorious. Our town was again our own.

Padar-
jan
stayed home for a few months. He spent time with his brothers, tried to help his father recover some business and even helped some of the neighbors to rebuild their homes. Things were going well until the day that a young boy came knocking on our door with a message for Padar-
jan
. The next morning, Padar-
jan
oiled his machine gun, donned his
pakol
hat and headed back out to rejoin the war.

He came back here and there but his mood swings were worse with each visit. We saw him only two or three days at a time and we were children, too young to understand the rage he brought home. He was not the same person at all. Even Bibi-
jan,
my grandmother, would cry after his visits, saying she had lost another son to the war.

It was my cousin Siddiq who told us about the news. He had heard from our grandfather.

“Amrika. That’s who. They came and they’re bombing the Taliban. They have the biggest guns, the biggest rockets! And their soldiers are so strong!”

“Why didn’t Amrika come before?” Shahla had asked. She was nearly twelve years old then. Wise enough to come up with questions that made us look at her with admiration.

Siddiq was ten but had the confidence of a boy twice his age. His father had been killed years ago and he grew up under our grandfather’s wing. He was the man of his house.

“Because the Taliban bombed Amrika. Now they’re angry and they’re bombing them back.”

Our grandfather entered the courtyard and overheard our conversation.

“Siddiq-
jan,
what are you telling your cousins?”

“I was just telling them about Amrika, Boba-
jan
. That they’re firing rockets at the Taliban!”

“Padar-
jan,
” Shahla asked timidly, “did the Taliban destroy many homes in Amrika?”

“No,
bachem
. Someone attacked a building in Amrika. Now they are angry and they’ve come after him and his people.”

“Just one building?”

“Yes.”

We were silent. It sounded like good news. A big, powerful country had come to our rescue! Our people had an ally in the war against the Taliban!

But Boba-
jan
could see in Shahla’s eyes that there was something that puzzled her and he knew just what it was. Why would Amrika be so upset after just one building was attacked? Half our country had crumbled under the Taliban. We were all thinking the same thing.

If only Amrika would have been upset about that too.

CHAPTER 4

S
hekiba continued to toil in the fields as if her father were at her side. She fed the chicken and the donkey and fixed the plow when the axle snapped on a stone in the field. The house was quiet, somber. Sometimes the silence grated on her nerves and she would try to break it with the sounds of chores, or by talking to the birds perched on the wall. Some days she felt content, almost happy, to be self-sufficient. She hoped her mother liked the small flowers she had planted while she listened to the
bulbul
sing over Aqela’s grave.

Some things were difficult. Without her father around, Shekiba had no connection with the village or its resources. She used the cooking oil sparingly and was careful with how much she harvested from their field so that she would not go hungry. She dug a small trench between the house and the wall and buried some potatoes so that she would have a stock for the coming winter months. She picked the beans and ate a few, leaving the rest to dry for later.

Her father’s death seemed to usher winter in sooner than usual, by Shekiba’s warped sense of time. Shekiba had little reason to care about the month or year. The sun would rise and fall and she continued to do her chores, occasionally bothering to wonder what would come of her. How long would this existence last? More than once she thought of ending her life. Once, she’d pinched her nose and shut her mouth. She felt her chest tighten and tighten until she finally took a breath and continued to live, cursing her weakness.

She again contemplated digging her own plot, beside her father, and lying down in it. Maybe the dark angel Gabriel would see her and reunite her with her family. Shekiba wondered if she would see her mother again. If she did, she prayed it would be the mother who sang while she cooked their meals, not the bald, glassy-eyed woman Shekiba had buried.

Winter came and Shekiba floundered along, subsisting on what she had managed to keep through the fall. Each time she bothered to undress and bathe, she noticed her ribs protruding more. She used her siblings’ clothing to cushion her hip bones from the hard floor. She grew weak, her hair brittle and frayed. Her gums bled when she chewed but she barely noticed the taste of blood in her mouth.

Spring came and Shekiba looked forward to the warmth of the sun and the tasks that came with it. But along with spring came a visitor, and the first hint that Shekiba would not be allowed to live like this for long.

She was feeding the chicken when she saw a young boy in the distance, coming toward her home from her grandfather’s house. She could not tell who it was but went inside and donned her
burqa
. She paced back and forth, peeking through the door from time to time to confirm that the boy was still coming toward her. Indeed he was, and as he neared, Shekiba could see that he was no more than seven or eight years old. She marveled at how healthy he looked and wondered what her cousins were eating at the main house. Once more, Shekiba was thankful for the ability to hide behind the blue cloak.

“
Salaaaaaam!
” he called out when he was near enough. “I am Hameed! Dear uncle, I want to speak to you!”

Hameed? Who was Hameed? It did not surprise Shekiba that she didn’t recognize him. Likely many cousins had been born since she lost contact with the clan. Shekiba wondered how to reply. Should she answer or should she keep quiet? What would invite less inquiry?

“
Salaaaaaaam!
I am Hameed! Dear—”

Shekiba cut him off.

“Your uncle is not home. He cannot speak to you now.”

There was no answer for a time. She wondered if Hameed had been warned about her. She could imagine the conversation.

But be careful. Your uncle has a daughter, a monster, really. She is terrible to look at, so don’t be too frightened. She’s insane and may say crazy things.

Shekiba put her ear to the wall, trying to hear if Hameed was still there or if he was walking away.

“Who are you?”

Shekiba did not know how to answer.

“I said who are you?”

“I am… I am…”

“Are you my uncle’s daughter? Are you Shekiba?”

“Yes.”

“Where is my uncle? I was told to bring him a message.”

“He is not here.”

“Where is he then?”

At the edge of the field. Did you see the tree? The one that should be growing apples but grows nothing at all? That’s where he is. You walked right past him, along with my mother, my sister and my two brothers. If you have anything to tell him, you can tell him as you make your way back to the house with all the food.

But Shekiba did not say what she was thinking. She had that much sense left in her.

“I said, where is he?”

“He has gone out.”

“When will he be back?”

“I do not know.”

“Well, tell him that Bobo Shahgul wants to see him. She wants him to come to the house.”

Bobo Shahgul was Shekiba’s paternal grandmother. Shekiba hadn’t seen her since before the cholera took her family. Bobo Shahgul had come over to tell her son about a girl in the village, the daughter of a friend. She had wanted her son to take her on as a second wife, maybe even to have him move back into the family compound with the second wife and keep the first wife at this house. Shekiba remembered watching her mother listen to the conversation with her head bowed, saying nothing.

“Tell Bobo Shahgul that… that he is not here now.”

She was skirting the truth.

“You will tell my uncle what I have said?”

“I will.”

She could hear his footsteps grow distant but waited a full hour before emerging from the wall, just in case. She wasn’t the brightest girl, but even Shekiba knew it was just a matter of time before her grandmother sent another message.

Three months passed.

Shekiba was attaching the harness to the donkey to begin tilling the soil when she saw two men walking toward the house. She darted inside and grabbed her
burqa
in a panic. Her heart fluttered as she waited for them to near. She kept her ear against the inner wall, listening for footsteps.

“Ismail! Come out and speak to us! Your brothers are here!”

Her father’s brothers? Bobo Shahgul meant business. Shekiba frantically tried to think of something reasonable to say.

“My father is not at home!”

“Enough with the nonsense, Ismail! We know you’re here! You’re too much of a coward to leave your home! Come on out or we’ll barge in there and shake some sense into you!”

“Please, my father is not home!” She could hear her voice cracking. Would they force their way in? It wouldn’t take much effort. The door would fold in at their slightest touch.

“Goddamn you, Ismail! What are you doing hiding behind your daughter! Move aside, girl, we are coming in!”

CHAPTER 5

M
adar-
jan
took me behind the house with Padar-
jan
’s scissors and razor. I sat nervously while my sisters watched. She pulled my long hair into a ponytail behind my head, whispered a prayer and slowly began to shear away. Shahla looked astonished. Rohila looked entertained and Parwin watched only for a moment before running back into the house for her pencils and paper. She sketched furiously with her back turned to me.

Madar-
jan
cut and trimmed, bending my ear forward to trim around it. She cut my bangs short and straight across my forehead. I looked at the ground around me and saw hair everywhere. She brushed the loose strands from my shoulders, blew at my neck and dusted off my back. My neck felt bare, exposed. I giggled with nervous excitement. Only Shahla noticed the single tear that trickled down Madar-
jan
’s cheek.