The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

  Bobo Shahgul gasped. Shekiba could see the fear in her eyes. She stared at her granddaughter’s portentous face and took a nervous step back.

  Kaka Zalmai slapped her face with a mighty backhand. Even the deadened nerves on the left side of her face stung with his blow.

  Clever, she thought as she tried to catch her balance. Won’t leave a mark there.

  He tightened his fingers around her arm and dragged her away from the house.

  “We are leaving. Madar-jan, I’ll be back when I have gotten rid of this monster. Samina, help my mother back into the house!”

  Shekiba had no trouble keeping up with her uncle’s pace. She kept two steps behind and played the scene over and over again in her mind. Had she really done that? Had she really said those things?

  Her burqa hid a lopsided smile.

  They walked the four kilometers to Azizullah’s home in silence. Kaka Zalmai occasionally looked back and muttered something that Shekiba could not make out. They passed through the village Shekiba had not seen since early childhood. The shops looked more or less the same and there were a handful of people walking about, blue burqas following men dressed in loose flowing pants and long shirts.

  As they moved further from her family’s land, Shekiba wondered if she had done the right thing. What if she found herself alone again? What would she do? But she knew. She would do what she had intended to do months ago.

  I will find a way back to our land and bury myself with my family, Shekiba resolved.

  Azizullah’s home was large in comparison to Bobo Shahgul’s. And when she discovered that only Azizullah, his wife and four children lived in it, she was astonished. Azizullah had been given the home by his father, who had been a relatively wealthy man by village standards. Today, Azizullah made his living as a man of commerce. He bought and sold anything that was of any value to anyone. He made trades and loaned money as needed. He knew everyone in the village, but more important, everyone knew him. His family was well connected, with two brothers in the military service.

  It was Azizullah himself who answered the outer gate.

  The men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Shekiba stood just behind her uncle, feeling invisible.

  Azizullah was a burly man who looked to be in his thirties. He wore a brown lambskin hat of rippled fur that sat snugly on his head. His eyes were dark and he had a thick but neatly trimmed beard. His clothes and hands looked clean.

  He does not look like a working man, thought Shekiba.

  “Please come in, Zalmai-jan. Join me for a cup of tea.”

  Kaka Zalmai accepted the invitation and followed Azizullah into his courtyard. Shekiba stood behind, not sure what she should do, until she saw her uncle shoot her a look. She took a step into her new home. The men went into the living room but Shekiba thought it best if she remained outside. She stood with her back to the wall, her shoulders now starting to ache where Bobo Shahgul’s walking stick had come down on her earlier. Again, a smile beneath her burqa. Nearly twenty minutes passed before she was summoned into the living room by her uncle.

  “This is Shekiba, Azizullah-jan. You will see that, as we told you, she is a very hard worker and is sure to prove useful in your home. I trust your wife will be pleased with her.”

  “Zalmai-jan, we have lived in this village for many years and Shekiba-e-shola is no secret. I had heard of her scars before your brother spoke of it. Now I want to see exactly what it is that I am bringing into my home. Have your niece show her face.”

  Kaka Zalmai looked in Shekiba’s direction and gave her a nod. His eyes warned her against disobeying. Shekiba took a deep breath, lifted her burqa and braced herself.

  His reaction came slowly. At first, he saw only the right side of her face. Her high cheekbone. Skin with the delicacy and color of an eggshell. Her dark iris and naturally arched brow caught Azizullah by surprise. The infamous monster was half-beautiful.

  But as Shekiba turned her face, her left side came into view. She moved slowly, deliberately—anticipating a response. It suddenly occurred to her that Azizullah could be so repulsed as to send her back to her grandmother’s house. She held her breath, unsure what to wish for.

  Azizullah’s brows wove together.

  “Impressive. Well, no matter. For our purposes, her face is insignificant.”

  Insignificant?

  “She has no other illnesses? Does she speak?”

  “No, Azizullah-jan. Aside from her face, she is healthy. She speaks but not enough to pester you. She should be an unobtrusive addition to your household.”

  Azizullah stroked his beard. He took a moment to contemplate and then made his final decision.

  “She will do.”

  “I am so happy that you see things this way, Azizullah-jan. You truly are a very open-minded person, may God grant you a long life.”

  “And you, my friend.”

  “I should be on my way then. I trust this will satisfy my family’s debt to you. And please know that my mother sends her warmest regards to your wife as well.”

  Kaka Zalmai spoke so graciously, Shekiba could hardly recognize him as a member of her family.

  “Our debts are settled, as long as this girl works as you’ve said she will.”

  AND SHE DID. MOSTLY OUT OF FEAR that she would be sent back to Bobo Shahgul’s house. Soon Shekiba realized that she was much better off here in Azizullah’s home anyway. Azizullah called his wife, Marjan, into the living room after Zalmai took his leave.

  “This is Shekiba. You should acquaint her with the chores of the house so that she can get to work. Her family speaks highly of her abilities to keep a clean house and manage even heavy tasks. Let us see how she proves herself.”

  Marjan eyed her carefully, wincing as her eyes fell upon Shekiba’s face. She was a good-hearted woman and immediately took pity on Shekiba.

  “Allah, dear girl! How terrible!” she exclaimed, wiping her powdery hands on her skirt. She recovered quickly, though. “Well, let me show you around. I was just kneading the dough but it’s all done now. Follow me.”

  Marjan was probably in her late twenties. Shekiba calculated that she must have had her first child at Shekiba’s age.

  “This is our bedroom. And this is the kitchen area,” she said, pointing to a doorway on the left. Shekiba stepped in and looked around. “Oh, for God’s sake, look at your hips! How will you squeeze a baby through them?”

  Marjan’s girth was generous, probably having increased by inches with each new addition to their family.

  But Marjan’s statement surprised Shekiba. No one had ever mentioned the possibility of her bearing children—not even in jest. She felt a heat rise into the right side of her face and lowered her head.

  “Oh, you’re embarrassed! That’s sweet! Well, let’s move on. There are many things to be done while we stand here chatting.”

  Marjan listed the chores to be done around the house, but she spoke without the bitter condescension of Shekiba’s own family. Despite the fact that she’d been brought here as a servant, Shekiba realized Azizullah’s home would be a reprieve for her. She caught herself before she broke out into a full smile.

  Azizullah and Marjan had four children. Shekiba met the youngest first—Maneeja, a two-year-old girl with soft dark curls that framed her rosy cheeks. Her eyes were thickly lined with kohl, which made the whites glow. Maneeja clung to her mother, her tiny fingers hanging on to her mother’s skirt as she eyed the new face warily. Shekiba saw herself and Aqela doing the same with Madar-jan. Marjan and Shekiba sat down to finish rolling the dough into thin, long ovals. They would be taken to the baker later to be made into fresh-baked bread.

  The eldest child, Fareed, was ten years old. He darted into the kitchen and grabbed a piece of bread before Marjan could chastise him. And before he could take stock of Shekiba’s face. Shekiba tried to imagine which of her female cousins would possibly have been arranged as his future bride had her services not been offered instead. It was hard to guess.
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  Next came eight-year-old Haris and seven-year-old Jawad. They were in a hurry to keep up with their older brother and barely noticed that there was a new person toiling away with their mother in the kitchen. They were energetic boys who froze in their father’s presence. But when Azizullah was not around, they quibbled and tackled each other, teaming up against their stronger older brother.

  The children seemed to have inherited their parents’ attitude toward disfigurement. After their initial surprise and a few bold questions, they no longer seemed to notice.

  Within two weeks, Shekiba felt quite at home with Azizullah’s family. The boys reminded her of her own brothers, Tariq and Munis. Maneeja had Aqela’s dark curly hair. But the resemblance brought Shekiba more pleasure than pain. It was almost as if she was living with her reincarnated siblings.

  You did me a favor, Grandmother. The only decent thing you’ve ever done for me.

  Just as she had at Bobo Shahgul’s house, Shekiba soon came to manage most of the household on her own. She busied herself with washing the clothes, scrubbing the floors, bringing the water from the well, cooking the meals—just as she had done in the past. Things were considerably easier here, though, since there were only six people to look after. She could tell that Marjan was more pleased with her work than she wanted to show. Azizullah paid her no attention, as long as his wife had no complaints with their new servant.

  But when the family took to their beds and the house settled into its night rhythm, Shekiba lay awake as the outsider she would always be. Shekiba had experienced upheaval and change before and each time, she adjusted. She was by now used to the idea that she was not truly part of any home, not truly part of any family. She would be sheltered by these walls only as long as she scrubbed them until her hands bled.

  Because she was Shekiba, the gift that could be given away as easily as it had been accepted.

  CHAPTER 10

  RAHIMA

  KHALA SHAIMA TOLD US how Bibi Shekiba adjusted to the changes in her life. Now I had to adjust to the changes in mine. I had to learn how to interact with boys. It was one thing to play soccer with them, running alongside them and bumping elbows or shoulders. It was a whole other to be talking with them as we walked home from school. Abdullah and Ashraf would pat me on the back, sometimes even sling an arm around my neck as a friendly gesture. I would smile meekly and try not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. My instincts were to jerk back, to run away and never look them in the eye again.

  My mother would raise an eyebrow if I came home before Muneer.

  “Why are you home so early?” she would say, wiping her wet hands on a rag.

  “Because,” I said vaguely, and tore off a piece of bread.

  “Rahim!”

  “Sorry, I’m hungry!”

  Madar-jan bit her tongue and resumed slicing potatoes into round chips with a hint of a smile on her face.

  “Listen, Rahim-jan. You should be out with the boys, playing. That’s what boys do—do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Madar-jan still spoke in circles when it came to talking about my shift from girl to boy. I think she was afraid she would stop believing the charade herself if she spoke of it too directly.

  “Yes, Madar-jan, but sometimes I just don’t want to. They . . . they push each other a lot.”

  “Then push back.”

  I was surprised by her advice but the look on her face told me she was serious. Here sat my mother telling me the exact opposite of what she’d always said. I would have to toughen up.

  Padar-jan had been home for three days and everyone was on edge. Every sound, every smell jarred him, inciting a string of profanities and a few slaps when he mustered the effort. For most of the day, he sat in the living room and smoked his cigarettes. Our heads grew dizzy from the smell and Madar-jan had us spend more time in the courtyard. She swaddled Sitara in a blanket and turned her over to Shahla while she did the cooking on her own. Sometimes my uncles would sit with him, smoking and talking about the war, about the neighbors and the Taliban, but none of them smoked as much as Padar-jan.

  “What do you think it would be like if Kaka Jamaal was our father?” Rohila asked one day. She and Shahla were collecting the laundry from the clothesline. Shahla stopped in her tracks.

  “Rohila!”

  “What?”

  “How could you say such a thing?”

  I listened but kept my attention on the marbles in front of me. I flicked my finger and watched one send another off too far to the left. I let out a frustrated huff. Ashraf’s aim was much better than mine.

  Just pay attention to where you want it to go, Abdullah had said. You’re only looking at the marble in front you. You have to look at the target.

  I froze when he took my hand and showed me how to position my fingers, tucking my pinky under so it wouldn’t get in the way. I still wondered what my mother would say if she were to see us. Was this okay too?

  Abdullah was right. Once I started looking in the direction I wanted the marble to roll, my shots were better. Marbles tapped against each other and rolled out of the circle. I would have won against Abdullah today. Well, maybe not Abdullah but definitely against Ashraf. My aim was improving.

  “It’s just a question, Shahla. You don’t have to get so upset about it!”

  Shahla shot Rohila a chastising look.

  “It’s not just a question. If it were just a question, I’d like to see you go and ask it in front of Padar-jan. Anyway, Kaka Jamaal always looks like he’s mad. Even when he’s laughing. Have you noticed the way his eyebrows move?” She cocked her head to the side and turned both her eyebrows inward, leaning toward Rohila, who burst into laughter.

  “You can’t ask for another father,” Parwin interjected. Rohila’s chuckles quieted as she turned to hear what Parwin was thinking. “It would throw everything off.”

  I sat up. My left side had gotten stiff from leaning in one position.

  “What are you talking about, Parwin?” I asked.

  “You can’t just have Kaka Jamaal as your father without making a lot of other changes. That means Khala Rohgul would be your mother and then Saboor and Muneer would be your brothers.”

  Parwin was Padar-jan’s favorite—if he had to pick one, that is. Maybe he’d already suffered enough disappointment by the time she was born that her being a girl hadn’t stung him as the other two’s had. But more than that, there was something about her temperament and drawings that calmed him. Maybe that’s why she was more forgiving of him. Or it could have been the other way around.

  “Anyway, you’d better stop before someone hears you,” Shahla warned Rohila. Sitara had started to whine and wriggle in her blanket. Shahla bounced her over her shoulder expertly. She was about to enter adolescence, her body no longer an androgynous shape. Rohila, strangely enough, seemed to be two steps ahead of her. Madar-jan had started her wearing a bra a year and a half ago when her breasts began to poke through her dresses impertinently.

  I had tried her bra on once. Just out of curiosity. Rohila had left it behind in the washroom by accident again. Madar-jan had slapped her once for being so indecent. Still, she had forgotten. I laid it out in front of me and tried to make sense of the straps. I stuck my arms through the loops and tried to fasten it in the back, my arms reaching awkwardly, blindly for the clasp. After a few minutes I gave up and looked down at the lumps of cloth hanging loosely over my square chest.

  I stuck my chest out, trying to see if I could fill the miniature cups and realizing I didn’t want to. Instead, I sat on the ground, cross-legged and comfortable, while my sisters became women.

  Later that night, I answered a knock at the door. Padar-jan lay in the living room, his loud snores rumbling through his chest. Sometimes he snorted so loudly that Rohila giggled and Shahla’s hand instinctively clamped over her sister’s mouth to stifle the sound. Parwin would shake her head, disappointed in her sister’s behavior. Madar-jan shot both girls a warning look; Shahla’s eyes wide
ned in a declaration of innocence.

  There was a man at the front gate. I recognized him as one of my father’s friends. He was gruff and had skin the texture of our plaster walls.

  “Salaam, Kaka-jan.”

  “Go and call your father,” he said simply.

  I nodded and ran back into the house, taking a deep breath before I nudged Padar-jan’s shoulder. I called out to him, louder and louder, before his snoring rhythm broke and he fumbled to rub his bloodshot eyes.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Excuse me, Padar-jan. Kaka-jan is at the gate.”

  His eyes began to focus. He sat up and scratched his nose.

  “Fine, bachem. Go and bring me my sandals.” I was his son and allowed to wake him up for important matters. I saw Shahla’s eyebrows draw upward. She noted the difference too.

  I went to the courtyard to listen in on their conversation. I sat away from the gate where they were talking, out of the man’s view.

  “Abdul Khaliq has summoned everyone. We’ll meet in the morning and then head out. They’re bombarding an area north of here and it looks like they’ll gain some ground if we don’t fend them off. There’s a lot of talk about that area. Seems the Americans are going to be sending us some weapons or something.”

  “The Americans? How do you know that?” Padar-jan asked, his back against the gate. His guest had declined his invitation to come in.

  “Abdul Khaliq met with one of their men last week. They want those people out of there. They’re still looking for that Arab. Whatever the reason, at least they’ll be helping out.”

  “When are we leaving?”

  “Sunrise. By the boulder on the road going east.”

  PADAR-JAN WAS GONE FOR TWO MONTHS that time but it felt different to me. I felt proud to know my father was fighting alongside a giant like America. My grandfather wasn’t so sure it was a good idea. He seemed more suspicious of these Americans but I didn’t see why.