Nadia Hashimi - The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

I couldn’t bear knowing my sister was just over the wall. I wanted to see her. I wanted to look at a face that knew me, that loved me. I couldn’t bear it anymore and worked up the nerve to ask Bibi Gulalai when I saw her walking through the courtyard.

“Khala- jan ! Khala- jan !” I panted, running up behind her.

My mother-in-law turned around, already displeased. When I reached her she wasted no time and slapped my face.

“What are you doing yelling and running like that? My God! You have absolutely no idea how to behave yourself! Have you learned nothing here yet?”

My face stung and my mouth gaped as I searched for an apology that wouldn’t make her angrier.

“Forgive me, Khala- jan, but I wanted to speak with you before you left. Good morning. How are you feeling?” I asked, not really caring but trying to show her that I did have some manners.

“You came running across the yard like a rabid dog to ask me that?”

There was no winning with her.

“Khala- jan, I wanted to ask you something. I really miss my sisters. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen either one of them or anyone from my family. Would it be possible that I could see my sister Parwin, at least? She’s just next door and I—”

“You were not brought here to go playing with your sister and taking her away from her responsibilities as well. It’s bad enough that you can’t manage what’s asked of you here! This is your family now. Stop thinking about anything else and go finish your chores. Your sister is hardly a help over there with her limp leg. Forget about making things even worse.”

“But, please, Khala- jan . Just to see her for a few moments. I promise I’ll have all my work done. I’ve already washed the floors and beaten the dust from the carpets this morning. I could even go there and help her with whatever she needs to do—”

Another slap across my face. I took a step back and felt my eyes blur with tears. I was always surprised by the amount of force her wrinkled fingers brought.

“You had better learn to hear what I say the first time I say it.”

She turned her back to me and walked out of the courtyard, shaking her head.

I shouldn’t have been surprised but I was. My sister was yards away but she might as well have been across the country. Bibi Gulalai made me wonder even more how she was doing, with her “limp leg.” I prayed the other wives had some sympathy for her, that there was at least one kind face.

In Abdul Khaliq’s compound, there was only one person who was genuinely nice to me, Abdul Khaliq’s second wife, Jameela. While Badriya and Shahnaz appeared friendly enough, it took a half day with each to see their true colors. Badriya, with her larger, second-story home, looked down on everyone but even more so on me, the young latecomer.

“Badriya was the same way with me,” Shahnaz said when I came back to the house crying one day. “It’s not easy being the oldest wife.”

“Why not? She’s got everything! The best cook, the best maids, the best rooms!”

“It’s not about any of those things. Abdul Khaliq doesn’t want her. He doesn’t call for her, now that he’s busy with you. He used to be the same way with me and she hated it. Hated me for it.”

“But… but I don’t want to be called to him. I would be happy if he ignored me. What does she do that he doesn’t call for her?”

Shahnaz laughed, her eyes lit up with amusement. “Simple, just get old. You see how Abdul Khaliq doesn’t like to eat food cooked yesterday? Men want something fresh, hot off the stove.” She cocked her head to the side and gave a sly smile.

That night I prayed for Allah to make me old, as old as Badriya, who looked older than my own mother.

But Shahnaz was just as bitter toward me as Badriya was. She, too, hated being called by Abdul Khaliq, but it wasn’t much better when she saw me going toward his quarters. She would bang the pots around, huff if I asked her anything and slam her door. The following day, more chores were piled on me than usual, even if I was also called to clean Badriya’s house.

Jameela was the only one who was different. She was Abdul Khaliq’s second wife and, being such, had the second-best accommodations of the compound. She lived downstairs and down the hall from Badriya. She had been given to Abdul Khaliq by her family as a token of gratitude. No one was sure exactly what they were grateful for — it was always spoken of in very vague terms — but she seemed content enough with the arrangement. She had borne him three sons and two daughters, making him satisfied enough that she was holding up her end of their arrangement.

At thirty, Jameela was much more beautiful than Badriya and even Shahnaz, who was at least ten years younger than her. Her eyes sparkled with kindness and good humor when she spoke. My mother’s warnings had been sage advice when it came to the other wives of the compound, but when I met Jameela, I knew I could trust her.

I had met Jameela last. She’d run into me coming out of Badriya’s home.

“You must be Rahima! Ay, you’re even younger than Badriya predicted.”

“I’m not that young!” I’d shot back. I was tired and sweaty and didn’t need anyone else making comments about me. “Who are you anyway?”

“Looks like you’re off to a good start.” She’d smiled gently. Her reaction had embarrassed me. “I’m Jameela. I live in the part of the house here with my children. My son Kaihan is probably your age. My daughter Laila, too. Have you met them?”

I shook my head. I hadn’t seen anyone my age yet. I wondered if Laila was as nice as her mother.

“Laila!” she called out. “Laila- jan, what are you doing?”

“Zarlasht dirtied her clothes, Madar- jan ! I’m changing her!”

“Come here for a second, janem, and bring Zarlasht with you. There’s someone you should meet.”

I heard footsteps. Laila was indeed close to my age, probably a couple years younger than me, but the baby on her hip hid the difference. She looked like her mother — her eyes and hair the color of night, dark and dramatic against her gauzy emerald head scarf. She looked at me with curiosity. Zarlasht was about a year old. Seeing them made me think of Shahla and Sitara. As a baby, Sitara spent just as much time in my sister’s arms as she did in my mother’s.

“This is Rahima- jan, ” Jameela said, taking Zarlasht from her daughter’s arms. “Remember the nikkah we heard about last week? This is your father’s bride.”

Laila raised an eyebrow. “You are?”

I stood still, unable to bring myself to admit to a title that seemed too heavy for my shoulders.

“She is, so you’ll be seeing her around more.”

“Why is your hair so short? Like a boy?”

I felt my face flush and turned away. I wasn’t sure how much to share. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to tell everyone I’d been a bacha posh .

“That’s… that’s how I wore it when I was going to school!” I blurted, hoping that was explanation enough but mostly wanting Laila to know that I’d been to school.

“School?” she exclaimed. “You were going to school like that? Madar- jan, she looks like Kaihan, doesn’t she?”

“You were a bacha posh, weren’t you?” Jameela asked. “That’s what I’d heard. Bibi Gulalai mentioned it before the nikkah . My children have never seen a bacha posh but I remember my neighbor’s cousin had been one. Up until she was ten years old, that is. Then she changed back to a girl.”

“What’s a bacha posh ?”

“Laila- jan, I’ll explain more later. I just wanted you to meet Rahima- jan for now. And this is Zarlasht, my youngest.”