“What happens to a daughter when her father . . . if her father has some land . . . if he is not . . .”
Marjan pursed her lips and cocked her head. She could sense the question buried in Shekiba’s ramblings.
“Shekiba-jan, you are asking a ridiculous question. Your father’s land will go to his family, since your brothers are dead, may Allah grant them peace.” Marjan’s response was blunt but it was reality—regardless of what the laws might say. Her candor gave Shekiba confidence to speak openly.
“But what about me? Am I not rightfully an heir to the land? I am his child too!”
“You are his daughter. You are not his son. Yes, the law says that daughters may inherit a portion of what the son would inherit but the truth is that women do not claim land. Your uncles, your father’s brothers, have no doubt taken the property.”
Shekiba let out a frustrated sigh.
“My dear girl, you are being quite ridiculous. What do you think you would do with a piece of land? First of all, you are living here now. This is your place. Secondly, you are unmarried and no woman could possibly live on a piece of land alone! That is simply absurd.”
I lived alone on that land for months. It didn’t feel absurd. It felt like home.
But Marjan could not know about her time alone. Shekiba did not dare share the details, knowing it was unspeakable for her to have done so. No reason to give the village more fodder for gossip.
“But if I were a son?” she asked, unwilling to let the matter go completely.
“If you were a son, you would inherit the land. But you are not a son and you cannot be a son and your life is now here as part of this home. You are asking questions that will invite nothing but anger. Enough!” Marjan needed to put a stop to the discussion. If her husband heard them, he would surely be displeased. If these were the kinds of thoughts that ran through her head, Marjan was thankful Shekiba did not speak more often.
But I have always been my father’s daughter-son. My father hardly knew I was a girl. I have always done the work a son would do. I am not to be considered for a wife, so what is the difference? What of me is a girl?
Shekiba gritted her teeth.
I have lived alone. I have no need for anyone.
Azizullah’s family had been relatively kind to her but Shekiba was restless. She felt freshly resentful of her family.
I cannot go on like this forever. I must find a way to make a life for myself.
CHAPTER 12
RAHIMA
TOO OFTEN, I MISSED THE OPPORTUNITY to learn from Bibi Shekiba’s story. She was determined to make a life for herself and I seemed determined to unravel the one I had.
I wonder how long I would have gone on as a boy had Madar-jan not seen us on that day. Most children who were made bacha posh were changed back into girls when their monthly bleeding started but Madar-jan had let me go on, bleeding but looking like a boy. My grandmother warned her it was wrong. Next month, my mother would promise. But I was too useful to her, to my sisters, to the whole family. She couldn’t bear to give up having someone who could do for her what my father wouldn’t. And I was happy to continue playing soccer and practicing tae kwon do with Abdullah and the boys.
We didn’t have any hot pepper at home and Padar-jan liked his food spicy. Those peppers changed everything for me.
Abdullah, Ashraf, Muneer and I were coming down our small street. The boys walked with us and then continued on to go to their own homes, smaller than ours but in as poor condition. People in our neighborhood weren’t starving but we all thought twice before throwing a scrap to a stray dog. This was how it had been for years. Some days we walked lazily. Other days we were boisterous and raced each other to the tin can, to the old lady, to the house with the blue door.
Abdullah and I stayed close together. In our circle of friends, we had something different. Something a little more. His arm across my shoulder, he would lean past me and tease Ashraf. I was a bacha posh but it had gone on too long, like a guest who had grown too comfortable to leave.
It was Ashraf who had started it. He had kicked his leg up into the air, though not as high as he thought it went. We tried to tell him he could barely reach our waists but he was certain he saw his foot swoop past our faces. Muneer shook his head. He was tired of Ashraf practicing on him.
We were fans of martial arts. We’d seen some magazines with fighters in different poses, their feet higher than their heads, their arms fired forward. We wanted to be like them and flipped through the pages copying their stances.
We had fought this way before. All of us. Playfully and without giving it much thought. I had started wrapping a tight cloth around my breast buds. I didn’t want the boys to notice them or comment on them. It was awkward enough that my voice had not begun to change as theirs had. Sometimes I came away with bruises. Once, my ankle twisted in under me as I ducked a kick from Ashraf. For one week, I limped from home to school and back. I told Madar-jan I’d tripped on a rock, knowing I couldn’t tell her how it had really happened.
But it was worth it. Worth it for that moment when, inevitably, Abdullah would have me cornered, or would twist my arm behind me and I could feel his breath on my neck. Somewhere inside I tingled to be that close to him. I didn’t want him to let go, even if I could feel my arm pulling from its socket. I reached out and grabbed at his other arm, feeling his adolescent muscles flex under my fingers. When I was close enough to smell him, to smell the sweat on his neck, I felt dangerous and alive. That’s why it was often me who started the sparring. I loved where it put me.
That was what we were doing when Madar-jan came out of the neighbor’s house, a fistful of red peppers in her right hand and the corner of her chador in her left hand. It couldn’t have been worse. She spotted us just as he’d tripped my foot. I lost my balance and fell to the ground. I looked up and saw Abdullah’s handsome grin as he, victorious yet again, straddled me and laughed.
“Rahim!”
I heard my mother’s voice, sharp and horrified. I saw her faded burgundy dress out of the corner of my eye. I felt my stomach drop.
Abdullah must have seen the look on my face. He jumped to his feet and looked over at my mother. Her face confirmed that something had gone wrong. He reached his hand out to me so I could get up.
“That’s all right,” I mumbled, and got to my feet, dusting off my pants and trying to avoid my mother’s accusing eyes.
“Salaam, Khala-jan,” Abdullah called out. Ashraf and Muneer were reminded of their manners and echoed the same. She turned abruptly and went through our front gate.
“What happened? Your mother seems upset.”
“Ah, it’s nothing. She’s always telling me that I come home with my clothes filthy. More to wash, you know.”
Abdullah looked skeptical. He knew a mother’s angry face and could tell there was something more behind this.
I didn’t want to go home. I knew Madar-jan was upset but if I delayed facing her, things would be worse.
I couldn’t look at Abdullah, already feeling my face flush. My mother had seen something different than everyone else. She had seen her daughter pinned under a boy in the middle of the street. Few sights could have been more shameful.
I felt a crunch and saw red peppers, crushed by my sandal, at our front gate. Where Madar-jan had dropped them. I collected what I could from the ground and went inside.
“Madar-jan, I’m going to wash up for dinner,” I called out. I could see her in the kitchen and wanted to test the waters, without actually meeting her eyes.
She didn’t answer me, which I could only take as a bad sign.
I felt my hands start to shake. Sure, I knew better. Even dressed as a boy, I shouldn’t have let things go so far. My aunts or uncles could have seen me. And it was possible they had. I would hardly have noticed with Abdullah up against me.
I wondered if she would tell Padar-jan. That would be the end of me. Every possibility sent my brain spinning and drove me into a wild panic. I
left the broken peppers on the family room table and went to wash up as I’d said I would. I tried to come up with a plan to talk my way out of this mess. I went to the kitchen, my face still wet.
“Madar-jan?”
“Hmm.”
“Madar-jan, what are you doing?” My voice was meek and unsteady.
“Dinner. Go and finish your work now that you’re done embarrassing yourself in the streets.”
There it was. I felt a tiny bit relieved to hear her say it. Now I could start to defend myself.
“Madar-jan, we were just playing.”
Madar-jan looked up from the pot she was stirring. Her eyes were narrow and her lips tight.
“Rahim, you know better. Or at least I thought you did. This has gone on too long.”
“Madar-jan, I—”
“I don’t want to hear another word out of you. I will talk to you later. Right now, I’ve got to get your father’s dinner ready or I’ll have a second disaster on my hands.”
I retreated to the other room and worked on my homework assignments for a while before I decided to see if Agha Barakzai needed any help for the afternoon. I didn’t want to be around while Madar-jan’s anger festered. He kept me busy until the evening and I came home to find that Madar-jan had not saved me any food.
She saw me looking into the empty pots.
“There’s a little soup left. You can have it with some bread.”
“But, Madar-jan, there’s nothing but onions and water in this soup. Wasn’t there any meat left?”
“We finished it all. Maybe next time there will be some for you.”
My stomach growling painfully, I suddenly became very angry.
“You could have left me something! That’s how you treat me? You want me to just go hungry?”
“I’m not sure what it is you’re hungry for!” she whispered pointedly.
Padar-jan walked in just then. He rubbed his eyes.
“What’s all the yelling about?” he asked. “What’s going on, bachem?”
I shot my mother a look and spoke without thinking.
“She didn’t save me a single piece of meat. She wants me to have onion broth and bread! I was working at Agha Barakzai’s shop and there’s no dinner for me when I come home!”
I threw my wages on the table for good measure. The bills fluttered in the air and spread out dramatically.
“Raisa! Is this true? Is there nothing for my son to eat?”
“Your son . . . your son . . .” Madar-jan fumbled, trying to find a reasonable explanation for why she was punishing me. But Madar-jan wasn’t quick enough or sly enough to come up with an alternative story on the spot. And as angry as she was, my mother couldn’t bring herself to throw me into the fire.
I saw it coming and instantly wished I could take back what I’d said. I saw his face redden with anger. I saw his head tilt and his shoulders rise. His arms began to wave with anger.
“My son is hungry! Look at the money he’s brought home! And even with this you can’t find a morsel of food for him? What kind of mother are you?”
A clap as the back of his hand swung across her face. She reeled from the blow. My stomach dropped.
“Padar!”
“Find him something to eat or you’ll be going hungry for a month!” he barked. He struck again. A drop of blood trickled from my mother’s lip. She covered her face with her hands and turned away from him. I trembled when he looked at me. From the corner of my eye, I saw Shahla and Rohila peeking from across the hall.
“Go, bachem. Go to your grandmother and ask her to fix you something to eat. Make sure you tell her what your mother has done. Not that she’ll be surprised to hear it.”
I nodded and stole a glance at my mother, thankful she didn’t meet my gaze.
That night I thought of Bibi Shekiba. I liked to compare myself to her, to feel like I was as bold and strong and honorable as her, but in my most honest moments I knew I wasn’t.
CHAPTER 13
SHEKIBA
THE IDEA BREWED FOR SOME TIME before Shekiba considered actually going ahead with it. The conversation with Marjan should have discouraged her but it hadn’t. All she had gleaned from it was that, officially, she had a right to claim at least a portion of her father’s land.
She lay awake every night thinking of the deed. A mere piece of paper with a handful of signatures, and yet it carried so much weight. Where would her father have kept it? Shekiba closed her eyes and imagined herself at home. She heard the clapping of the gate against the latch, the metal rusted over. She pictured her father’s corner, his blankets laid out and ready for those chilly nights. She saw her mother’s kitchen stool and her brother’s sweaters, folded and stacked on a shelf.
It must be in his books, Shekiba thought. Since she’d been the only one to tend to it, she knew every inch of the house. She thought of the shelf and how she’d given up on dusting it after her mother died. Padar had collected three or four books over the years and that was where he kept them.
When Shekiba made the realization, she nearly hit herself for how obvious it was.
But how do we know, Padar-jan?
All the answers are in the Qur’an, bachem.
Her father taught them all to read, first with the Qur’an and next with the books he kept. She would follow along as his callused finger traced the words. Her brothers occasionally brought home a newspaper from their adventures into the village and the children would take turns poring over the pages and practicing making sense of the words and phrases. It was difficult but Padar-jan patiently let them make mistakes, peering over their shoulders when they faltered and filling in the pieces.
It’s in the Qur’an, she realized. What were the chances her uncles had not yet found it? Unlikely—but maybe there was a possibility those bullheaded men had not bothered looking for it. Surely they had no inkling that Shekiba would even think to assert any claim over the land.
Which meant Shekiba was thinking of returning to her home—not a small undertaking.
And if she were to find the deed, what would she do with it? She couldn’t expect to show it to her uncles and have a rational discussion with them. No, she needed to bring the deed to an official, the local judge, so that she could argue her case.
It was just like Azizullah and his brother had discussed. A disagreement like this needed to be settled by an official, which meant Shekiba’s plan became even more complex. How would she find this person?
And how would she get to all these places? She needed to be out of the house for a day. Shekiba wondered if Marjan would let her venture out on her own. After their conversation, it was hard to imagine Marjan would be supportive of her idea. Shekiba would have to come up with something.
TWO DAYS LATER, SHEKIBA APPROACHED MARJAN as she was knitting a sweater for Haris. She rehearsed her question in her mind before clearing her throat.
“Salaam, Khanum Marjan,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Salaam, Shekiba,” Marjan said, barely lifting her eyes from the needles as they crossed, uncrossed and crossed again in her hands.
“Khanum Marjan, I wanted to ask you something.”
“What is it, Shekiba?”
“I was wondering if I could take a day to visit my family. I have not seen my family in several months and I was hoping to visit them. Next week is Eid and I know it will be a busy time here, so perhaps this week?” She folded her hands behind her to stop from wringing them.
Marjan stopped her knitting and set the needles on her lap. She looked puzzled.
“Your family? Dear girl, since coming here you have never once mentioned your family. I was beginning to think you were so cold as to not have any affection for them! How is it that you now want to pay them a visit?”
“Oh, I’ve missed them dearly,” she said, trying her best to make her voice sound genuine. “But in my first days here, I did not think it was proper to make such a request.”
“And now?”
“W
ell, now I have been here for some months and with the holiday coming . . . I wanted to pay a visit to my grandmother, out of respect.” Shekiba wondered if she was giving omniscient Allah a good laugh or if she’d be damned for her lies.
“Your grandmother.” Marjan sighed heavily and pressed her fingers to her temples.
Shekiba braced herself.
“We have much to do to prepare for the holiday. We need to bake some cookies, there will be many meals to prepare, the house needs to be spotless . . . ,” she said, listing the tasks ahead. “But I suppose it is only proper that you should pay a visit to Bobo Shahgul. She is your grandmother, after all. I will speak to Azizullah and present your request.”
Shekiba tried not to smile. She bowed her head in gratitude.
“Thank you, Khanum Marjan,” she said. “I would really appreciate that.”
Every once in a while, Shekiba became aware of how painfully naïve she was. The following day was one such occasion.
Marjan walked into the kitchen area as Shekiba sat on the floor, with a heap of potatoes before her. She stopped peeling when she heard her name being called.
“Shekiba, Azizullah agrees . . . hey, girl! What is wrong with you?” Marjan took one look at Shekiba and froze. Her hands flew to her hips and her eyes narrowed.
“Huh? What is it, Khanum Marjan?” Shekiba looked down at the pile before her, wondering what had offended the mistress of the house so.
“Is that how a girl sits?” she said, waving an arm at Shekiba’s sprawled legs.
Shekiba turned to look at herself. She was leaning against the wall and had her knees bent, the pile of potatoes in the valley her skirt formed between her legs.
“In the name of God, have some decency! Fix yourself before the children see you! Were you never taught how to sit?”
Shekiba got up and fixed her skirt, tucking her legs under her, and looked up at Khanum Marjan for approval.
“That’s better. I heard you had become your father’s son but I did not think it had gone this far.”
“Yes, Khanum Marjan.” Shekiba felt half her face flush.