Nadia Hashimi - The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

My shoulders relaxed. He saw the bacha posh but it was just as Madar- jan had promised — people understood.

“I’m Arif’s son. From the other side of the field, past the stream.”

“Well done, my boy. Here, take your oil and flour and run off before I come to my senses.”

I quickly counted out the bills, took my spoils and hurried back home to show Madar- jan . My walk turned to a jog as I realized I didn’t have to be demure and proper. I tested an old man walking by. I looked directly at him, meeting his squinted eyes and seeing that he didn’t react to my forwardness. Thrilled, I started to run faster. No one gave me a second glance. My legs felt liberated as I ran through the streets without my knees slapping against my skirt and without worrying about chastising eyes. I was a young man and it was in my nature to run through the streets.

Madar- jan smiled to see me panting and grinning. I laid the goods before her and proudly showed her how much money I’d returned home with.

“Well, well. Looks like my son bargains better than his mother!” she said.

I started to understand why Madar- jan needed a son in the home. Certain chores she had left for my father had not been done in months. Now she could ask me.

When my sister’s shoes came undone, the rubber sole flopping like an open mouth, I took them to the old man down the street. With only three fingers on his right hand, he could fix any shoe in any condition. I brought bread from the baker and chased the stray dog down the street. My father would come home, his eyes red and small, and laugh when he saw me.

“ Bachem, ask your sister to bring me a cup of tea. And tell her to fix me something to eat too,” he said, ruffling my hair as he walked lazily to the corner of the living room and stretched out on the floor, his head thumping against the pillow cushion.

I was confused for a moment. Why hadn’t he asked me to bring the tea and food? But realization swept over me as I walked into the kitchen. I saw Rohila first.

“Hey, Rohila. Padar- jan wants some tea and something to eat. He’s in the living room.”

“So? Why didn’t you put a plate together? You know there’s some korma-katchaloo in the pot.”

“He didn’t ask me . He said for me to tell my sister . That’s you . Anyway, I’m going out. Don’t take all day. He looks like he’s hungry,” I said cheerfully. Rohila’s hazel eyes gave me a look even as she turned to heat up a bowl of potato stew for our father. She was angry and part of me knew I was being a brat, but everything I was experiencing was new and I wanted to enjoy it. I ignored the shadow of guilt and headed out to see if the stray dog had returned for another game of chase.

A month later, school was back in session and my nerves were again rattled. Madar- jan trimmed my hair and spoke to me cautiously.

“You’ll be in the boys’ classroom this year. Pay attention to your teacher and mind your studies,” she warned me, trying to make this little talk sound routine. “Remember that your cousin Muneer will be in your class as well. No one, the teacher, the students, no one will ask you about… about anything. Just remember that your father has decided to send you to school this year. You are one of the boys and… and… mind what the teacher tells you.”

It would be different, I understood. Khala Shaima’s plan had worked well within the confines of our family compound and even in my trips to the bazaar. School would put this charade to the test though, and I could sense my mother’s trepidation. My sisters were furious. Padar- jan had decided they were to stay home even though I could have accompanied them to school.

Muneer and I walked to school together. He wasn’t the brightest of my cousins and I rarely saw him since his mother kept her children away from the rest of us. That probably worked in my favor. He needed to be told only once that I was his cousin Rahim and always had been, and in his mind there never had been a Rahima. I breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to worry about his giving me away.

“ Salaam, Moallim-sahib, ” I said when we arrived.

The teacher grunted a reply in return, nodding as each student walked in. I wiped my moist palms on my pants.

I felt the teacher’s curious eyes follow the back of my head but it could have been my imagination. I scanned the room and stayed close behind Muneer, noting that none of the boys seemed fazed by me. I kept my head bowed and we made our way to the back of the classroom, where Muneer and I shared a long bench with three other boys. One boy was especially eager to show how much he knew about the teacher.

“ Moallim-sahib is very strict. Last year he gave four boys bad marks because their fingernails weren’t clean.”

“Oh yeah?” his friend whispered. “Then you better keep your finger out of your nose!”

“Boys! Sit up straight and pay attention,” the teacher said. He was a rotund man, his shiny bald head rimmed with salt-and-pepper hair. His neatly groomed mustache matched his sparse hairs. “You’ll begin by writing your names. Then we’ll see what, if anything, you learned in your last class.”

I quickly realized the male teachers were just as strict as the women. Class wasn’t much different except that there was more whispering and shooting each other looks than I’d ever seen in a girls’ classroom. I wrote my name carefully and watched Muneer struggle from the corner of my eye. His letters were awkwardly connected and an extra dot had changed “Muneer” to “Muteer.” I debated correcting him but the teacher looked in my direction before I could even begin to whisper. He walked around the room and looked at everyone’s names, shaking his head at some and grunting at others. Very few seemed to meet his standards.

He looked over my shoulder and I could hear the air whistle through his nostrils, his belly casting a shadow over my paper. My name got no reaction, which I could take only to mean it had not severely disappointed him. Muneer’s notebook, however, made him groan.

“What is your name?” he demanded.

“M-M-Muneer.” He stole a glance upward at the teacher but quickly looked down again.

“ Muneer, ” he said dramatically. “If you come back to this class tomorrow and make a single mistake in your name, I’ll send you back to repeat last year’s work. Understood?”

“Yes, Moallim-sahib, ” Muneer whispered. I could feel the heat from his face.

So the boys weren’t learning much more than the girls, I realized.

After class, the boys were more interested in racing outside and kicking a ball around than questioning who I was or where I’d come from. Muneer and I walked home with two boys named Ashraf and Abdullah. They were neighbors who lived a half kilometer from our family’s house. This was the first time I’d met them, though they knew Muneer and my other boy cousins.

“What’s your name again?” Ashraf asked. He was the shorter of the two and had light brown hair and round eyes. He was pretty enough to make me wonder if he was like me, a girl underneath those pants.

“My name is Rahim.”

“Yeah, his name is Rahim. He’s my cousin,” Muneer added. The teacher’s warnings had shaken him up but now that we were outside, he was breathing easier.

“Abdullah, have you ever seen Rahim before?”

Abdullah shook his head. He was dark haired, slim and calmer than his neighbor.

“No. Are you any good at soccer, Rahim?”

I stole a sidelong glance and shrugged my shoulders.

“Oh, he’s really good at soccer,” Muneer said emphatically. His reply caught me off guard. “I bet he could beat you.”