Nadia Hashimi - The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

“It looks like haleem, doesn’t it?”

Shekib sighed. This was not the first time her face had been compared to the dish of slow-cooked meat with grains, mushy enough that it could be spoon-fed to infants.

“Her face?”

“Oh, you’re right! How awful!”

“Damn you, you know how much I love haleem ! You’ve just gone and ruined my breakfast for me!”

There were quiet chuckles as Shekiba’s new nickname was passed around and adopted by the group.

Sakina took the lead and Shekib followed her into a back corridor and up a separate flight of steps. At the top of the steps was a heavy wooden door. Sakina stopped and turned back to face Shekib. “Now, knock on that door and when you hear an answer, you’ll open the door, then turn around and return to the others. This is as far as you go.”

Shekib nodded and did as Sakina instructed. From within, she heard the king’s voice bellow something incomprehensible. She opened the door just enough for Sakina to enter, holding her towel around her and her head lowered. Shekib closed the door and waited for a moment. She could hear their voices talking quietly. A laugh. A squeal. Shekib felt her face blush remembering that Sakina had nothing but a towel to cover her. She turned back down the stairs, suddenly afraid that she would be discovered lingering outside the room.

Her introduction to the harem was complete. She understood now that the king visited who he wanted, when he wanted. He came often but usually didn’t stay long. There were some consorts he favored more than others, some he ignored for the most part but kept in the harem. The nine women who had borne him sons were treated better than the others. These nine women were given dresses with the finest embroidery and the choicest fruits, and they walked taller than the rest. Their places were more secure than the others’, thanks to their gifted wombs. Neelab, whose three boys had not lived more than a month, was the exception. She had disappointed the king more than those women who had borne him daughters and she would receive no special treatment until she could give him a son who would live long enough to at least take a few steps.

Shekib watched and learned over the next few months. She paid attention to the way the palace functioned, the way the women interacted with each other and the habits of the king. She was stronger than the other guards and began to take on duties that the others struggled with. It was easy for her to lug the heavy pails of water into the harem. She had no trouble carrying the children when they fell asleep in the courtyard. She was not a threat to anyone, thanks to her disfigurement.

But Shekib did not stop thinking about her own plight. She watched the women of the harem. At least they belonged to someone. At least they had someone to care for them, to look after them. Daughters looked at their mothers’ faces, nestled against their bosoms. How that must feel!

But what would become of the guards?

Shekib needed a plan. In the meantime, she made sure to fulfill her obligations and keep Ghafoor and the palace satisfied. She did not want to invite any punishment, thinking back to her grandmother and Azizullah. In more powerful households, the food might have been better but the penalties were that much harsher.

She was in the courtyard of the harem when she saw him. He walked casually with another man, a man with a wool hat and a short beard. Shekib had seen the man in the wool hat before. He was Amanullah’s friend, she had been told. His name was Agha Baraan. Shekib wondered what they were talking about. This was the fifth time she had seen the prince and she now understood why his arrival had created such a stir.

Amanullah, the king’s son, was striking. He was solidly built, a few inches taller than Shekib. When he walked, his broad shoulders spoke of confidence, even though he seemed to be close to Shekib’s age. He exuded a natural boldness, tempered with kind, rational eyes.

Shekib melted into Shekiba.

She had instinctively tried to cover her left face and lower her gaze the first time she saw him. After the third sighting, however, she changed her approach as she realized she could take advantage of her “manhood.” She stared at the prince, who did not see her gawking anyway.

He gave her something to think about instead of her father’s land. Or her dead family.

They were headed into the palace gardens. Shekib’s hand touched her face and hair, wondering what she looked like to him. She knew half her face was actually beautiful. She could tell by the reaction of those who only saw as much.

She had worried that if she were ever to have children, they would turn away from her, repulsed by the demi-mask she wore. But the children of the harem reached out to her, trusted her, laughed when she tickled them. Maybe her own children would do the same. Maybe her own children would see her as her mother had, as unflawed and worthy of love.

And then Shekib realized how she could change her fate. How she could stop being gifted from one stranger to another. But to do so she needed to belong to someone, to a man. And if she had sons, she would seal her fate. A mother of sons would not be passed from hand to hand like livestock.

Amanullah had paused. His companion was pointing to some bushes that had flowered in the last week. He bent over and touched the leaves with an attentiveness Shekib would not have expected from the commander of the army. And the treasury, whatever that really was.

She stood tall, the right side of her face turned in his direction. She willed him to turn and look at her, to see her. She walked a few steps forward, hoping movement would attract his attention. He stood up and, almost as if pulled by her thoughts, turned in her direction.

Shekib’s heart leapt into her throat. She froze, watching him from the corner of her eye and wondering what she should do. She gave a half smile and bowed her head just slightly, without diverting her view.

He began to speak and turned back to the friend, without changing his expression. Was he saying something about her? What could it be? Could he tell her apart from the other guards at this distance? Maybe the king had told him about her, the newest of the women-men.

Shekib realized she was smiling and turned back to face the house. She did not want anyone to see her staring at Amanullah and his friend as they walked thoughtfully through the maze of bushes and flowers. She bit her lower lip and pulled her shoulders back. An idea was beginning to take shape in her mind but it would require some work.

Seasons changed, two years passed and I feared I was forgetting what my mother looked like. I doubted I would recognize my younger sisters if I were ever to run into them. I got updates from Khala Shaima but it usually wasn’t good news. She tempered what she told us but she felt we had a right to know. Madar- jan had become as much of an addict as my father. Rohila and Sitara were mostly left to fend for themselves, though my grandmother sometimes stepped in to pick up the slack. In return, Madar- jan was doing more work around the compound and the already strained relationship between her and her in-laws had deteriorated. Padar- jan, when clear-headed, made her life miserable. After all, as his mother pointed out, she wasn’t being much of a wife or mother these days.

Part of me was thankful that I wasn’t around to see what had become of my mother. Part of me wondered if things would have been different had I been sent back. Once I started that line of thinking, I could go on for days with what-if scenarios. I always ended up in the same place — wondering how things would have worked out had I never been made a bacha posh . I think that’s where my family started to crumble. Inevitably, I would wonder if Shahla and Parwin had the same thoughts. And if they still resented me.