Though her face twisted in pain with each blow, she did not make a sound.
Her back stung, hot and wet. The soldier had a book tucked under his arm, as law instructed, to soften the striking force. They counted out loud and when they reached a hundred, Shekiba’s wrists were untied and she fell on her side in exhaustion. The men said nothing and left the room.
Her mind drifted. She felt water on her lips. Hands rubbed ointment on her back. It was nearly a day later before Shekiba realized Dr. Behrowen was tending to her wounds. The British woman clucked her tongue and shook her head, almost as an Afghan would, muttering something that Shekiba did not understand.
Shekiba closed her eyes to block the horror but it was still there, the images seared onto the insides of her eyelids. She opened her eyes again and looked at Dr. Behrowen. She was squeezing water out of a wet rag. She considered Shekiba carefully.
“Dard?” she asked, her British accent blunting the letters so thickly that the word was unrecognizable. She had to repeat herself twice more before Shekiba understood she was asking about pain.
Shekiba shook her head. Dr. Behrowen raised her eyebrows and turned her attention back to the bucket of rags.
Shekiba looked down. She was wearing thin pantaloons that tapered at her ankles. A head scarf lay strewn across a chair in the corner of the room. Shekiba realized she was in Benafsha’s room in the harem. Through the walls, she could hear women chatting. She remembered how Benafsha had begged and prostrated herself before them, asking forgiveness and mercy from a crowd focused only on saving their own skins.
The door opened and Halima peered in.
“Can I come in?” she asked quietly, looking at Dr. Behrowen.
Dr. Behrowen must have understood; she nodded and waved Halima into the room.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better.” Her throat felt like sandpaper.
“I’m glad.” She knelt at Shekiba’s side. “Things have been ugly here the last few days. Never have we experienced such things.”
Shekiba had nothing to say in reply. Halima sighed heavily and looked quickly at Dr. Behrowen with tears in her eyes.
“Tariq is outside. She wants to see you but she’s very nervous. Is it all right if she comes in for a few moments?”
Shekiba nodded. She remembered seeing Tariq when she turned her gaze from Benafsha’s stoning. Tariq’s mouth and eyes were open wide with horror, a small pool of vomit at her feet.
Halima placed a gentle hand on Shekiba’s forehead before she stood and quietly walked out. Shekiba wished she would come back, stroke her hair and hold her hands as a mother would. Instead, Tariq rushed in and fell at Shekiba’s side; the trembling in her hands vibrated her voice.
“Oh, Allah have mercy! Are you all right? Are you badly hurt? What did they do to you?”
“I was punished.”
“How?”
“One hundred lashes.”
Tariq scanned her body, her brows furrowed together in angst. “How awful! How very awful! Oh, Shekib! Did they say why they were punishing you?”
“Because I did not do my job as a guard.”
“Oh, Allah forgive us! We were all as guilty as you!” she whispered, as if afraid the palace would hear her.
“But only I had been on duty that night. Ghafoor made sure to tell them that.”
“She . . . I never would have imagined she could be so . . . I mean, I know she thinks only of herself but I just never thought she would do something like . . .”
“That’s what people do. She’s no different than anyone else.”
It suddenly occurred to Shekiba that Benafsha had been different. The general had offered leniency in exchange for a name. Although she must have known his offer was a lie, even the possibility of mercy didn’t faze her resolve. She never named the man. Why had she done that? Why had she protected Agha Baraan?
“She said that they only wanted to talk to you. She said she did not know they were going to punish you.”
Shekiba recalled Ghafoor’s shifting gaze on that night and on the day of the stoning.
“What did they tell you? Benafsha . . . she brought such shame to the palace but I never thought . . . I just cannot believe this happened here! I thought things were different here in Kabul, in the king’s palace!”
“No man could tolerate such an offense. The king would have shamed himself if he had agreed to a lesser penalty.”
“And what will become of us guards?”
“I do not know.”
“What about you? Will they send you back to your family?”
Shekiba remembered that she had been spared for a reason—she was to be married! She pictured Amanullah’s face. Could it really be? Had he rescued her from execution to live on as his wife? Or maybe as a concubine? Even curled up on the floor with her raw back covered in salves, Shekiba yearned to be in a new home, her own home, and with child. She wanted to feel tiny palms pull at her face with unquestioning affection.
“No. I do not know where they will send me.” She decided to say nothing about the marriage until she knew more. She did not want word getting back to Ghafoor, lest she find a way to ruin things for her.
“Oh, what an awful mess! I’m so sorry, Shekib. I’m so sorry that you took the fall for this. The whole harem is terrified. They’re worried more will be punished, just to set an example, or maybe if they believe others were involved . . .”
Shekiba decided Tariq was exhausting her. She asked her to leave so that she could close her eyes. Tariq looked disappointed but nodded and walked out, her uniform looking bulky and awkward. She was less of a man now than she had ever been.
Shekiba was just drifting off when Tariq burst back into the room.
“Shekib!” she said excitedly.
“Please, Tariq, I just want to sleep for a few—”
“I know and I apologize, but the palace sent over a messenger. They asked me to tell you . . . to tell you to be ready in two days.”
Shekiba looked up.
Tariq’s face flushed with a nervous smile.
“They said you’re going to be married!”
CHAPTER 48
RAHIMA
IT WAS THE HOLIDAY OF EID. Five weeks since the attack on Zamarud. Badriya had received several letters from the director general. If she didn’t return to her duties immediately, she would be stripped of her position. Abdul Khaliq had made up his mind. We would be going back after the holiday.
Jameela told me what it was all about.
“He’s got a deal with a foreign company. You know these westerners he’s always going out to meet. He wants them to pay him to provide security. But it’s up for vote in the parliament whether or not that company should be allowed to build a pipe through our province. If they aren’t allowed to build, they won’t need his security.”
“That’s why he put Badriya in the parliament? To get her to vote for the pipe?”
“Yes. And to vote for all the right people for other positions, the people who will give him what he wants.”
Badriya’s voting made perfect sense now. Abdul Khaliq must have told her to watch for his friend’s signals. She wanted us to believe she actually mattered but she was a stooge. She was nothing like Hamida and Sufia. No wonder she seemed so awkward around them.
I was happy we would be returning, although this time I knew it would be even harder to leave Jahangir. This time I knew just how much I would miss him. But I dared not ask again if I could take him with me.
We, the four wives, went to Bibi Gulalai’s compound next door to pay our obligatory respects on the first day of Eid. After that, we went home and braced ourselves. For three days, our house received visitor after visitor. I spent three days in the kitchen with the cook and the maid, drying dishes, filling bowls with nuts and raisins and pouring cups of tea. I wasn’t invited to sit with any of the guests as Badriya and Jameela were. Even Shahnaz came out from time to time and chatted with the women who came by.
And if my husband were to marry again, I had no reason to expect things would get better for me. I knew my family would not take me back. It was a matter of pride. My uncles would never tolerate having a rejected wife, a dishonored woman, back in their fold.
It was possible that he would keep all his wives. But there was no room in the house for that. We were all uneasy with the possibilities. Bibi Gulalai and Abdul Khaliq were remarkably tight-lipped about the idea.
“Rahima! Rahima-jan, come out here! Look who has come to see you!”
I dried my hands on my skirt and hurried into the living room, hoping to see Khala Shaima. My jaw dropped to see that my eldest sister, Shahla, stood before me, a little boy holding her hand and another baby, no more than four months old, in her arm.
Shahla smiled brightly to see me while I simply stared. Her face and hips had rounded, taking her out of adolescence. She looked cheerful.
“Rahima! My dear sister!” She let go of her son’s hand and took a step toward me. I couldn’t believe I was seeing her after all this time. It felt so good to have her arms squeeze me, to have her hands touch my face.
I felt her tears against my cheek, mixing with mine.
“It’s so good to see you, finally!” she whispered. “Forgive me, Rahima. I couldn’t come to be with you when . . . when everything happened.”
I had missed Shahla so much, and never more than when Parwin had taken her own life. Seeing her reopened the hurt.
“I wanted to be here. I wanted to come but it was so close to the time when this little one . . . ,” she said, pointing to the baby girl in her arms.
I touched the little girl’s face, her skin soft and smooth like Shahla’s.
“I know, Shahla. I wish you could have been here too. It was . . . it was so terrible!”
“Allah forgive her, I’m sure it was. Poor Parwin! I can’t imagine what she must have gone through!”
Bibi Gulalai stood in the corner of the room, eyeing us suspiciously and looking displeased. I looked and saw there were other guests I hadn’t greeted. I exchanged quick kisses with Shahla’s mother-in-law and two of her sisters-in-law. Shahla had taken a seat on one of the cushions, her little boy beside her and her daughter in her lap. I sat next to her, Bibi Gulalai’s eyes following me.
“Oh, Shahla, look at your children! They’re beautiful! I have a—”
“Rahima!” Bibi Gulalai barked. “Don’t you think it would be more polite to bring our guests some tea before you start boring them with your yammering?”
My face flushed with embarrassment and anger. At least five Eid holidays had passed and this was the first time my sister had been able to pay a visit to the compound in that nearly three years’ time. I hadn’t seen her since the night of our miserable weddings. I could see the surprise on Shahla’s face to hear the way Bibi Gulalai spoke. Jameela intervened.
“Let me, Khala-jan. Rahima’s dear sister is here and it would be nice if the girls could spend some time together.”
I loved Jameela for understanding. And stepping in. She brought cups of tea and passed around a dish of nuts and dried mulberries. The ladies chatted amicably while Shahla held my hands. Her son, Shoib, grinned shyly while her daughter’s tiny arms waved this way and that, her eyes glued to her mother’s face.
“Shoib, did you say salaam to your khala-jan?”
“Salaam,” he said quickly, then hid behind his mother’s shoulder.
“He’s very timid,” Shahla said, smiling.
“I want you to meet my son, Shahla.” I rushed into the hallway and called out for Jahangir. The ladies in the room thought we looked ridiculous. Everyone had children. They didn’t understand why we were making such a fuss over them.
I heard footsteps from Jameela’s room. My son had become quite comfortable staying with her while I was in Kabul. Whenever he wasn’t with me, I knew exactly where I would find him.
“Come, bachem, come and meet your khala-jan,” I beckoned. My son, looking curious, took my hand and followed me into the living room.
“He’s a darling, nam-e-khoda!” she said, praising God’s name and blowing three times to ward off the evil eye. “He’s got your face.”
“Do you really think so?” It pleased me to hear that.
“Absolutely! And Madar-jan’s hair. Look at the way the curls twist behind his head.”
We both winced at the mention of our mother.
“Have you seen her?” I tried to be discreet.
Shahla shook her head. I looked at my feet, dark with dust. This was a sore spot for both of us and I didn’t want to tell my sister everything I’d heard about Madar-jan’s downward spiral. With all these women present, it felt like a betrayal. But I wanted to pour my heart out to her, to tell her about our younger sisters, left to fend for themselves even with two parents at home. I wanted her to tell me she would talk some sense into Madar-jan, even if Khala Shaima couldn’t. I kept it bottled.
“And your little girl—she’s so sweet! What’s her name, Shahla?”
I put my hand in front of her hand. Her long, graceful fingers wrapped around mine and squeezed tight.
Shahla lowered her voice and looked to see if anyone was paying attention to us.
“I named her Parwin,” she said quietly.
A second look and I realized Shahla’s daughter had our sister’s doe-like eyes and pink, puckered lips. My throat tightened. Shahla smiled wanly.
“Parwin?”
“Yes. My mother-in-law wanted to name her Rima, actually, but I asked if I could choose the name. She agreed to let me.”
I stared at my niece’s face. The longer I stared, the more of Parwin I saw. Then I thought of my own mother-in-law. She had only gone along with my son’s name because my husband had approved of it. He must have liked it very much or she would have changed it for sure.
“I can’t believe she agreed.”
“I know. It was difficult because she thought it would be bad luck, you know, to name a child after someone with a lame leg. Thank goodness I named her before . . . I mean if she had been born after, I couldn’t have convinced anyone. The name would’ve carried too much shadow.”
Shahla looked at her daughter’s face wistfully.
“Then after all that happened, everyone started calling her Rima. I could barely bring myself to say her name either so for a long time it was a relief to call her Rima. But now, when it’s just me and her, I call her Parwin. It makes me feel better. Funny, isn’t it? We hear the same name and while they see dark, I see light.”
I knew just what she meant.
Had the guests been anyone else, I would have returned to the kitchen long ago. But it was my sister and I wanted to spend every second I could with her. Jameela refilled the teacups, passed around a plate of cookies and made small talk. She kept an eye on Bibi Gulalai and when it looked like our mother-in-law was about to say something to me, Jameela would ask a question or say something to distract her. When our eyes met, I thanked Jameela silently. She smiled.
“Shahla, you look so well!” I exclaimed. And I meant it. My sister looked more mature but otherwise unchanged. And she looked content. I even saw her make eye contact with her sister-in-law once or twice and smile. Genuinely. Her mother-in-law was a soft-spoken woman, nothing like Bibi Gulalai and her searing glare. She must have been in her sixties, wisps of gray hair peeking out from under her head scarf. She listened to Jameela talk about our mother’s illness with a look of sincere concern.
“Really, Shahla, are things okay?” I whispered when the room was divided in conversation. “Are you happy?”
“I miss you so much, Rahima! I miss everyone. I wish so much that I could see Rohila and Sitara. I want to know how big they’ve gotten, what they’re doing. But I’m happy.”
I smiled. I believed her.
“What about you?” Jahangir pulled at Shoib’s sleeve, inviting him to play in the hallway. Shoib shrugged his shoulders and followed.
“Me?” I could feel Bibi Gulalai’s
stare boring into the back of my head. I nodded. My sister knew me too well. Her face grew somber.
“Good, I’m glad to hear that,” she said in a way that told me the opposite was true.
“I go to Kabul now. Did you hear about that?”
“I heard something, but . . .”
I told her about Badriya’s seat in the jirga and how I worked as her assistant. I told her how different Kabul was, just like in the stories Khala Shaima told us. I was proud when I saw how impressed Shahla was.
If only I could have suspended time. I would have sat beside my sister, our children playing together in a picture of innocence, our hearts supporting each other as we mourned our dead sister, the mother we once had, and the sisters we’d left behind.
“You see Khala Shaima still, don’t you?”
I nodded. “She comes by when she can. It’s getting harder for her but I miss her so much when she doesn’t come.”
“Does she still tell you stories of Bibi Shekiba?” Shahla asked. She started to rock when she noticed her daughter’s eyes begin to close, just as I did with Jahangir. It was amazing how quickly girls took on the instincts of motherhood.
“She does. I love hearing those stories. It makes me think of . . . it makes me think of other times.”
Shahla sighed. She missed it as much as I did.
“I know, Rahima-jan. But times change. Everything changes. Birds fly away, one by one.”
CHAPTER 49
SHEKIBA
SHEKIBA WAS TOLD NOTHING MORE. A nikkah was to be performed in two days’ time. Word spread through the somber harem quickly and several women came together to prepare the new bride.
“Who is this man? How fortunate you are! You were spared by our dear king for marriage! That is quite an honor!”
Those voices were in the minority. Shekiba heard the whispers around her, angry and incredulous. Some said that she had probably conspired with Benafsha and that she should have been stoned alongside her.
You see how comfortable she is in Benafsha’s room? As if it’s been hers all along!
I bet she helped hide Benafsha’s lover. I’m sure of it. I heard her footsteps in the middle of the night from time to time and I knew—I just knew something had to be going on!