Nadia Hashimi - The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

“I did not… regardless, congratulations.”

“And to you too.”

“To me too?”

“Certainly. It’s not every day that one can successfully escape a fire.”

“Just wait a minute! I did not—”

Something in Shekiba made her turn around and look Ghafoor in the eyes. She was tired of holding her tongue.

“There’s something you do not know about me, Ghafoor.” Shekiba turned to glare at her directly. Her eyes narrowed with hate. “Do you wonder why my family sent me away? My family sent me away because I carry a curse and those around me ended up in a grave years before their time. And now, under these clear skies and with Satan listening, I curse you. May you suffer a hundred times over for each lash I bore. Mark my words, you snake, you will get what you deserve,” Shekiba said quietly.

Ghafoor’s shoulders stiffened with anger but her face went pale. Satisfied, Shekiba turned and walked toward the soldier.

Shekiba was led into a small room in the east wing of the palace. The two men who had questioned her only a few days ago sat waiting. The short man looked at the lanky man, waiting for him to begin speaking.

Will Amanullah come here? Is it possible I will meet him today? Is it possible that there will really be a nikkah between us?

“ Salaam, ” she said quietly with her head bowed. She fidgeted with her clothing, her head scarf, wanting every piece to look perfectly in place. They motioned for her to sit in the chair across from them. One man spoke while the other nodded in agreement and parroted his words.

“You are a fortunate girl.”

“Very fortunate.”

Shekiba did not look up.

“You have been shown mercy that you did not deserve. You should be very grateful.”

“Very grateful.”

“Someone has agreed to take you on as wife, a title one would have hardly expected for you. But this is a chance for you to redeem yourself. To attempt to live a respectable life and fulfill your duties as dictated by our holy Qur’an. Do you think you can do this?”

“I was raised with love for our holy book, sir. I want nothing more than to live an honorable life.”

He raised an eyebrow. Maybe he had anticipated a more insolent response.

“Very well then. As you can imagine, our dear king Habibullah has no desire to lay eyes on you again after the tragedy that befell this palace. But he has given his blessing that you be given in marriage.”

Shekiba’s heart pounded. Still they had not mentioned the man’s name. She waited on each word he uttered, anxious to hear that name, that sweet name — Amanullah!

“Your future spouse is in the room next door with the mullah . He is signing the marriage certificate.” The door opened and a third man appeared. He gave the other two a nod and they turned back to Shekiba.

“He has agreed, stating his intentions clearly thrice over. Now it is your turn. We will speak on your behalf. Do you agree to take Agha Baraan as your husband in life?”

Shekiba began nodding before she heard the name. She kept nodding even when she heard the name and even for a few seconds after, before her mind was able to process it.

“Agha Ba….?”

“It is a simple yes-or-no response. Do you agree to take Agha Baraan as your husband? And might I add that you would be a bigger fool than we already know you to be if you should even consider any response other than yes.”

Shekiba sat speechless. They stared at her expectantly while her mind spun.

What is happening? Why would Agha Baraan want me? Agha Baraan? Benafsha’s secret lover? This doesn’t make any sense at all.

Shekiba felt her face tingle.

“Yes or no?” Louder, impatient.

“Are you stupid? Just say yes so we can send word to the mullah to close the nikkah ! Maybe we should just speak on her behalf. I’m in no mood to wait.”

“Fine, then it’s agreed. She hasn’t said no. I’ll tell the mullah .” The stocky man stood and walked out the door.

What about Amanullah? Then who is he to be married to? How could I have thought…?

Shekiba thought of the conversation she had overheard in the garden. Her throat knotted with anger. Maybe she was as foolish as everyone said.

A paper was brought to Shekiba and she took the pen that was handed to her, already dipped in ink, and wrote her name on the line. She was dazed but aware enough to know there was nothing else she could do. She’d seen how the palace disposed of people.

They led her into the hallway, where she was instructed to don her burqa . She did as she was told and Agha Baraan emerged from a nearby room. He looked in her direction, his face more somber than she remembered; his eyes heavy, dark and mournful.

He nodded at her and walked down the hallway toward the door. She followed, hearing the sighs of relief from the king’s lanky and stout advisers behind her. She was leaving the palace with Agha Baraan. Her nikkah had been signed, the contract official and binding. Shekiba was married to Agha Baraan.

Seeing Shahla made me miss her more. And Parwin. As the car bumped down the dirt road to Kabul, I thought about my sisters. Shahla looked like she was being treated well. Her mother-in-law seemed to be kinder, gentler than Bibi Gulalai. Just last night, Bibi Gulalai had taken her walking stick to my shoulder as I swept the hallway. She snapped the stick against my kneecaps when I fell to my side. She didn’t like the way I was crouched, she said. It was shameful.

I shifted in the seat, realizing the seat belt was pushing against a sore spot below my collarbone. I sighed heavily. Badriya pretended not to notice and I was grateful for that. I had no intention of crying on her shoulder.

But there was something else that I’d been thinking about since Shahla’s visit. Something that had been creeping into my mind since we sisters left our father’s house. Shahla had chosen to name her daughter Parwin. I loved Parwin with all my heart but it was undeniably bold and bad luck to name a child after someone with a lame leg. I wondered if I could have brought myself to name a child Parwin. Or Shaima. I hoped my aunt would never know. I felt a surge of shame to think it but I wouldn’t have used either of those names.

Bringing Jahangir into the world had nearly killed me. I prayed I would not become pregnant again and for once Allah had answered my prayers. But by now my body had regained strength and my mind had blurred the memory of his birth; I had started to want another child. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t become pregnant again but I thought maybe Allah had a plan for me. Maybe next month. As foolish and illogical as it was, I prayed my next child would be a girl.

What name would I choose? Raisa. My mother. Absolutely not. I was less embarrassed to admit that. I could picture her eyes in a toxic glaze, red with smoke, while Rohila and Sitara watched on helplessly. No, I could never use my mother’s name. But I couldn’t think of my mother without missing her, missing the way she held me on the day of our nikkahs, the day that broke her.

Zamarud? Maybe, but probably not. Too many people disliked her, enough to try to kill her. If they tried once, they would likely try again and maybe succeed. Then it would be the name of a murdered parliamentarian. No, I thought. That wouldn’t do.

Hamida? Or Sufia? Very possibly. I liked them both, Hamida a bit more because she had pushed Badriya to let me see more in the parliament, to do more outside.

Shekiba. That was it. That was the name I would have chosen. The name of my bibi ’s bibi . The woman who lived the double life I had, walked in a man’s clothes, worked with a man’s strength and fended for herself. That’s what I would want to name my daughter, if I were to have one. If.