Nadia Hashimi - The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

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.

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.

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.