Nadia Hashimi - The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

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.

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.