Nadia Hashimi - The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

“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.

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?”

“Well, 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.