Nadia Hashimi - The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

“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.

“Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes. Azizullah agrees that you should be allowed to pay respects to your grandmother for the holidays. You are to accompany him this Friday when he goes into the village for Jumaa prayers.”

Azizullah would take her there?

“Khanum Marjan, a world of thanks, but I do not wish to trouble your husband. I can find my own way and I will not bring him out of his way.”

Marjan looked at her incredulously. Shekiba never ceased to amaze her. The girl was quite handy and efficient in the house but when it came to common sense, she was seriously lacking.

“You expect to go wandering around the village by yourself? Have you lost your mind?”

Shekiba remained silent. Her mind raced.

“He will take you, as you requested, and join you to pay a visit to your family, although your uncles usually come by on the holidays. Azizullah will accompany you back home. You cannot expect to be wandering around the village like a street dog!”

Shekiba had done too much on her own while she lived with her father and before her uncles had claimed her. It had not occurred to her that she would have to be accompanied by someone. Her chest tightened with panic. She had not anticipated this stipulation.

“I… I had not meant to trouble…”

“Well, if you do not want to trouble him then you should not have raised the question.” Marjan walked out in exasperation. Shekiba’s bizarre questions were getting on her nerves.

Shekiba was left to wonder. She could tell Marjan she no longer wanted to go. It would seem strange but it could work. Or maybe once she was there she could ask permission to collect some belongings from her father’s home. But what about taking the deed to a hakim, the local official?

Maybe on another day. But even if she were granted another day, she would still need to be accompanied. And she had no idea where to find the hakim .

Shekiba would have to ponder that one. One bridge at a time, she thought.

Jumaa came and Shekiba steeled herself. It would take all her resolve to face her family again, especially her grandmother. But this was her only hope at getting her hands on the deed.

Marjan had instructed her to be ready in the morning, as Azizullah would not wait on her. He nodded in acknowledgment when he saw her waiting by the outside door, her burqa donned and her head bowed.

“ Salaam, ” she said quietly.

“Let’s go,” he said, then opened the door and led the way.

They did not speak on the way to the masjid . Shekiba walked a few steps behind but paid close attention to the road. She tried to memorize everything on the way there. The road was wide and dusty but lined with tall trees. There were a handful of homes scattered on either side, about two acres apart. The homes were uniformly surrounded by six-foot-high clay privacy walls. Shekiba could see rows of plantings in their yards and could spot the potatoes, carrots and onion plants even from this distance. The weather was dry and crops were suffering, which meant the families were probably suffering too.

A masjid, three shops and a bread baker constituted the village center. The storefronts were modest, with dull glass windows and handwritten signs. The bread baker didn’t really have a store. He sat against a wall of another shop and pulled hot, golden round breads from his tandoor, buried in the ground. The smell of fresh bread coming from the open circle in the ground made Shekiba’s mouth water. Two women stood waiting for their naan to bake. Shekiba recalled walking through the area when her uncle had taken her to Azizullah’s as a means of repaying his debt.

Shekiba, the gift, she thought miserably.

Azizullah took her past the masjid to a small home about a quarter of a kilometer away. He knocked at the front door.

“ Salaam, Faizullah- jan ,” he said with his hand on his chest.

“Agha Azizullah, how nice to see you! Are you on your way to Jumaa prayers?”

“Most certainly. But I had a favor to ask of you. This is my servant. I am taking her to visit her family after prayers have finished but I hoped I could trouble your wife to watch over her until then. I cannot leave her out in the street.”

“Oh, of course! I heard you had taken in Bobo Shahgul’s grandchild, the one with the half face. Have her stay in the courtyard. Not a good idea to leave an idle girl in the marketplace.”

Shekiba was directed to a stool with a view of the outhouse. She rested her head against the wall. The smell from the outhouse was overwhelming but she dared not move her seat, afraid to anger her unseen hostess.

She never met the man’s wife or children but she could hear them inside. Crying. Laughing. Running.

The sounds of a family.

I could leave now, Shekiba thought . What if I just opened the door and left? I can find my home from here. I could look for the deed and maybe even make it back for the end of prayers.

But Azizullah would probably come back and find her gone. Or the lady of the house would notice that the burqa had disappeared from the courtyard and tell him. And then what? Shekiba feared angering Azizullah mostly because she feared being sent back to Bobo Shahgul’s house. Nothing would be worse. At least, nothing she could think of.

Azizullah returned and thanked his friend for allowing Shekiba to stay. He gave her a nod and again they were on the dirt road, this time headed toward Bobo Shahgul’s house. When they arrived, Hameed answered the gate.

“ Salaam! ” Hameed called out.

“ Salaam, bachem . Where is your father? Your uncles? I did not see them at Jumaa prayers. Did they not go?”

“No, sahib . No, and if you only knew what Bobo- jan told them for being so lazy.” Hameed never could keep anything to himself.