Nadia Hashimi - The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

Shekiba continued to toil in the fields as if her father were at her side. She fed the chicken and the donkey and fixed the plow when the axle snapped on a stone in the field. The house was quiet, somber. Sometimes the silence grated on her nerves and she would try to break it with the sounds of chores, or by talking to the birds perched on the wall. Some days she felt content, almost happy, to be self-sufficient. She hoped her mother liked the small flowers she had planted while she listened to the bulbul sing over Aqela’s grave.

Some things were difficult. Without her father around, Shekiba had no connection with the village or its resources. She used the cooking oil sparingly and was careful with how much she harvested from their field so that she would not go hungry. She dug a small trench between the house and the wall and buried some potatoes so that she would have a stock for the coming winter months. She picked the beans and ate a few, leaving the rest to dry for later.

Her father’s death seemed to usher winter in sooner than usual, by Shekiba’s warped sense of time. Shekiba had little reason to care about the month or year. The sun would rise and fall and she continued to do her chores, occasionally bothering to wonder what would come of her. How long would this existence last? More than once she thought of ending her life. Once, she’d pinched her nose and shut her mouth. She felt her chest tighten and tighten until she finally took a breath and continued to live, cursing her weakness.

She again contemplated digging her own plot, beside her father, and lying down in it. Maybe the dark angel Gabriel would see her and reunite her with her family. Shekiba wondered if she would see her mother again. If she did, she prayed it would be the mother who sang while she cooked their meals, not the bald, glassy-eyed woman Shekiba had buried.

Winter came and Shekiba floundered along, subsisting on what she had managed to keep through the fall. Each time she bothered to undress and bathe, she noticed her ribs protruding more. She used her siblings’ clothing to cushion her hip bones from the hard floor. She grew weak, her hair brittle and frayed. Her gums bled when she chewed but she barely noticed the taste of blood in her mouth.

Spring came and Shekiba looked forward to the warmth of the sun and the tasks that came with it. But along with spring came a visitor, and the first hint that Shekiba would not be allowed to live like this for long.

She was feeding the chicken when she saw a young boy in the distance, coming toward her home from her grandfather’s house. She could not tell who it was but went inside and donned her burqa . She paced back and forth, peeking through the door from time to time to confirm that the boy was still coming toward her. Indeed he was, and as he neared, Shekiba could see that he was no more than seven or eight years old. She marveled at how healthy he looked and wondered what her cousins were eating at the main house. Once more, Shekiba was thankful for the ability to hide behind the blue cloak.

“ Salaaaaaam! ” he called out when he was near enough. “I am Hameed! Dear uncle, I want to speak to you!”

Hameed? Who was Hameed? It did not surprise Shekiba that she didn’t recognize him. Likely many cousins had been born since she lost contact with the clan. Shekiba wondered how to reply. Should she answer or should she keep quiet? What would invite less inquiry?

“ Salaaaaaaam! I am Hameed! Dear—”

Shekiba cut him off.

“Your uncle is not home. He cannot speak to you now.”

There was no answer for a time. She wondered if Hameed had been warned about her. She could imagine the conversation.

But be careful. Your uncle has a daughter, a monster, really. She is terrible to look at, so don’t be too frightened. She’s insane and may say crazy things.

Shekiba put her ear to the wall, trying to hear if Hameed was still there or if he was walking away.

“Who are you?”

Shekiba did not know how to answer.

“I said who are you?”

“I am… I am…”

“Are you my uncle’s daughter? Are you Shekiba?”

“Yes.”

“Where is my uncle? I was told to bring him a message.”

“He is not here.”

“Where is he then?”

At the edge of the field. Did you see the tree? The one that should be growing apples but grows nothing at all? That’s where he is. You walked right past him, along with my mother, my sister and my two brothers. If you have anything to tell him, you can tell him as you make your way back to the house with all the food.

But Shekiba did not say what she was thinking. She had that much sense left in her.

“I said, where is he?”

“He has gone out.”

“When will he be back?”

“I do not know.”

“Well, tell him that Bobo Shahgul wants to see him. She wants him to come to the house.”

Bobo Shahgul was Shekiba’s paternal grandmother. Shekiba hadn’t seen her since before the cholera took her family. Bobo Shahgul had come over to tell her son about a girl in the village, the daughter of a friend. She had wanted her son to take her on as a second wife, maybe even to have him move back into the family compound with the second wife and keep the first wife at this house. Shekiba remembered watching her mother listen to the conversation with her head bowed, saying nothing.

“Tell Bobo Shahgul that… that he is not here now.”

She was skirting the truth.

“You will tell my uncle what I have said?”

“I will.”

She could hear his footsteps grow distant but waited a full hour before emerging from the wall, just in case. She wasn’t the brightest girl, but even Shekiba knew it was just a matter of time before her grandmother sent another message.

Three months passed.

Shekiba was attaching the harness to the donkey to begin tilling the soil when she saw two men walking toward the house. She darted inside and grabbed her burqa in a panic. Her heart fluttered as she waited for them to near. She kept her ear against the inner wall, listening for footsteps.

“Ismail! Come out and speak to us! Your brothers are here!”

Her father’s brothers? Bobo Shahgul meant business. Shekiba frantically tried to think of something reasonable to say.

“My father is not at home!”

“Enough with the nonsense, Ismail! We know you’re here! You’re too much of a coward to leave your home! Come on out or we’ll barge in there and shake some sense into you!”

“Please, my father is not home!” She could hear her voice cracking. Would they force their way in? It wouldn’t take much effort. The door would fold in at their slightest touch.

“Goddamn you, Ismail! What are you doing hiding behind your daughter! Move aside, girl, we are coming in!”

Madar- jan took me behind the house with Padar- jan ’s scissors and razor. I sat nervously while my sisters watched. She pulled my long hair into a ponytail behind my head, whispered a prayer and slowly began to shear away. Shahla looked astonished. Rohila looked entertained and Parwin watched only for a moment before running back into the house for her pencils and paper. She sketched furiously with her back turned to me.

Madar- jan cut and trimmed, bending my ear forward to trim around it. She cut my bangs short and straight across my forehead. I looked at the ground around me and saw hair everywhere. She brushed the loose strands from my shoulders, blew at my neck and dusted off my back. My neck felt bare, exposed. I giggled with nervous excitement. Only Shahla noticed the single tear that trickled down Madar- jan ’s cheek.