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 hand
s 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
SHEKIBA
“FIRST 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?
“Well, let’s take a look at you.” She lifted Shekiba’s burqa and took a step back. “Well, well. That’s quite a face. I suppose that’s why you were sent here. Ladies, this is our newest guard.”
SHEKIBA’S SURPRISE GREW when she learned all of the guards in this house were actually women dressed in men’s clothing. Ghafoor seemed to be in charge of the five guards. It was evening and she could see the exhaustion in Shekiba’s face. Ghafoor had her rest for the night and told her work would begin in the morning. For the first time in a long time, Shekiba slept soundly, surrounded by women pretending to be men.
Her transformation started at daybreak. Ghafoor led Shekiba to the wash area and cut her thick, knotted hair. She was instructed to bathe and given a set of clothing identical to what Ghafoor wore. Shekiba stared in wonder at the pants and could scarcely believe she should walk about in them. She slipped one leg in and then the other, fastening the buttons at the waist. She was given a corseted undergarment that pushed her modest bosom flat against her chest. She slipped her arms into the shirt and buttoned it closed. The boots felt heavy. Shekiba stood and stared down. Then she reached up and ran her fingers through her short hair.
She took two steps and turned. Her legs felt loose and she blushed when she looked down and saw the crotch of her pants. Her hands ran over her backside and she shuddered to think the shape of her limbs would be so visible in these ballooned pants. She had only ever seen women in skirts, draped enough to disguise the curves and crevices that hid underneath.
And yet there was something liberating about her new clothes. She lifted her right leg and then her left. She thought of her brothers and how they would run about the fields in their flowing pants.
Ghafoor understood.
“It is awkward at first, but you’ll adjust quickly. The uniform is comfortable enough with time.”
“What are we guarding?”
Ghafoor laughed. “They’ve told you nothing? We are guards for King Habibullah’s women.”
“His wives?”
“Not exactly. His women. These are women he spends time with, women he takes when he is struck by the mood.” Shekiba must have looked confused. “Men can take more than just their wives, dear girl. Sometimes wives are not enough.”
Shekiba was certain she did not understand but kept her mouth shut for the time being.
Ghafoor looked at her thoughtfully.
“What happened to your face?” she asked.
Shekiba looked down instinctively. “I was burned as a child.”
“Hmm. And where is your family?”
“My village is one day’s travel from here. My mother and father are dead. My brothers and sister are dead.”
Ghafoor’s brow furrowed. “You have no other family?”
“They gave me away to repay a debt. And that man gave me away to the king.”
“And now you are one of us. Welcome, Shekiba. But here you will be Shekib, understand? Now let me introduce you to the others.”
FOUR WOMEN-MEN GUARDED THE KING’S HAREM. Shekiba found herself staring at their faces as so many others had stared at hers. But with good reason. Ghafoor was actually Guljaan. She was the leader of the group, not only because she was tallest and loudest but also because she had been in the palace longer than the others. She was the most content with her role and seemed to take pride in doing a good job. Her face was smooth, but a fine, downy rim on her upper lip and untamed brows gave her the appearance of a young man, fresh with enthusiasm for his important post.
Ghafoor came from a modest family in a nearby village and had been given to the palace in exchange for a cow. It was midafternoon and her mother had been busy with her younger siblings. Ghafoor’s father had interrupted her needlework. We are going to visit your grandmother, he had said. Ghafoor wondered why the others were not coming but shrugged her shoulders and followed her father two kilometers down the road, where she was delivered to a man dressed in a gray tunic and pants. Her father warned her sternly to follow the man’s directions and turned to walk
the two kilometers back to their family. She cried and screamed when she realized she would not see her mother or siblings again.
Ghafoor was brought to the palace and watched as a guard brought out a cow for the man in gray. It was a decent cow, not too sickly looking and plenty to satisfy her family’s needs. She realized immediately what her father had done and wondered if her mother had been privy to the plan. She cursed him for his deceit and feared what would become of her, an adolescent girl, in the hands of strangers.
It did not take long, however, for Ghafoor to appreciate her father’s barter. She missed her mother and siblings terribly but life behind the palace walls, even for a servant, was easier than life at home. The beatings were fewer, the food more plentiful, and she had taken on some authority.
The king needed guards to watch over his harem, but he believed no man to be above temptation. For months he paced and debated, the dilemma as perplexing as the tribal disputes in Kurram Valley. When an adviser came up with a plan to dress women as male guards, the king rewarded him for his stroke of genius and had him fill the positions as quickly as possible.
Ghafoor enjoyed the comfort of palace life. All she had to do was give up being a woman, an easy trade. Two other girls were recruited along with her, but they lasted only two or three months. One had argued with a woman of the harem and Benafsha, the other, had been so beautiful that the king took an immediate liking to her and decided she should be guarded as well. She was made to grow her hair long again and reassigned to her new position as a concubine.
Then came two sisters, Karima, who would become Karim, and Khatol, who would be renamed Qasim. This time the king’s representatives chose more wisely, recruiting girls who were tall enough to pass for men but homely enough that they would not tantalize the king. Karim and Qasim came from a family of four girls. Their mother cried violently as she told the girls they could not afford to feed all four and that their father had arranged for them to be taken to the king’s palace, where they would have a much better life. The obedient girls had tearfully accepted their parents’ decision and left home hand in hand.