Nadia Hashimi - The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

“Gulnaz is not happy. Things will be difficult for a time but it will get better.”

And without a word from Shekiba, Aasif, her husband, walked out of her room and closed the door behind him.

It was pitch-black when we arrived at the compound. Never had I been so relieved to see those gates. Maroof parked the car, looked at Hassan and sighed. Badriya had fidgeted so much in the last hour of the drive back that I’d thought she might just jump right out of the car. I didn’t bother with my burqa . Our car had barely stopped before I jumped out and opened the gate. There were lights on.

I opened the door to find Jameela rushing toward it. Her face told me everything.

“Jameela!”

“Oh, Rahima- jan ! Allah, help us — dear, young mother!” Her voice rose and fell, my heart with it.

“Jameela, where’s my son? Where’s Jahangir? Is he all right?” I grabbed her by the arms and moved her aside, pushing my way toward her room. Shahnaz emerged, holding her chador tightly at her chin. She was looking down, avoiding my gaze. I stopped short when I saw her. Her lips were trembling.

“Why are you all out here? Who’s watching my son? Where is he?”

Jameela rushed back and grabbed me before I could run into her room. By this time, Badriya had joined her.

Jameela hugged me tightly and held my head to her chest.

“Rahima- jan, Rahima- jan, God has decided to take your son! He’s taken your little boy, dear girl. God give him peace, that darling little boy!”

I froze. That was what I’d read in Badriya’s face. I looked at her now but she, like Shahnaz, diverted her tearful eyes.

Someone wailed. Someone moaned no, no, no, no . My son’s name.

It was my voice.

This couldn’t be true. This couldn’t be real. I looked around, thinking everyone I lived with had gone mad.

Abdul Khaliq came into the hallway, his eyes red, his lips tight. He looked at me and shook his head. I saw my husband’s shoulders heave. Bibi Gulalai stood behind him, sobbing into a handkerchief.

“Why? Why would you leave a sick child? His mother should have been here with him!” she cried out.

I looked into my husband’s eyes, our first truly intimate moment. It was as if no one else existed.

It’s true… It’s true, Rahima. What they’re saying about Jahangir, our son, is true! Our beloved boy is gone!

Abdul Khaliq covered his eyes with his hands before he looked up, took a deep breath and yelled for someone to find his prayer cap. His voice cracked and my chest caved in as the air was sucked out of the house.

I’m not altogether sure what happened after that. There was whispering, wailing, cursing and praying. All at once and then one at a time. Voices and faces blurred around me.

Let me see my son, I screamed. I want to see Jahangir.

Have a sip of water. You look as if you’re about to pass out.

Someone brought a glass to my lips.

The other children were in the living room, the older ones somberly watching over the babies and trying to keep them quiet.

Abdul Khaliq’s compound had never experienced such tragedy. Even I, who had lost my father, my mother, my sisters and myself, even I could not believe God would add this to my lot.

They led me to Jameela’s room. My little boy. His tiny face looked pale, his lips gray. I fell to my knees and put my head on his small chest. I stroked his chestnut hair, touched his full cheeks. I talked to him as if there was no one else in the room, as if there was no one else in the world. I wanted to comfort him and breathe life back into his little body. I was his mother. I had given him life and when he was ill, I had nursed him back to health. Why should now be any different?

I snapped when I felt a hand pull at my elbow.

“Leave us alone! I need to make my son better. He always wakes when I whisper his name. You’ll see him yawn, rub his eyes and look around in confusion. He’s going to tell me he missed me and that I shouldn’t go away again.”

There were traditions, rules that needed to be followed.

One hand became two, or maybe it was four. When there were enough, the hands became stronger than I and the room shrank away from me. I was in the hallway. I was on the floor. I was outside of myself. The arms melted away.

That is enough, they whispered. I hated them.

Bibi Gulalai was there. Wailing louder than anyone else.

Why? Dear Allah, what a sweet little boy he was! Too young, too young to take! His face, I picture his face before me as if he were still here. I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it! Oh, my poor son! Why should you have to have such a tragedy happen to you, my God-fearing son! My lion among men! If only I’d known sooner! I could have done more for him! I could have made him better!

I hated her.

I was numb. Days passed. Rituals were performed. All the right prayers were said. All the wrong people came to pay their respects. I noticed little of it, only the absence of my own family. My mother, my father. They never came to their grandson’s fateha . My father was not there to carry my son or throw fistfuls of dirt onto his grave. It mattered, though it shouldn’t have. Jahangir had never known them anyway.

Khala Shaima came, as did Shahla. My aunt and my sister sat by my side as I rocked back and forth, their eyes red and raw. Someone asked Khala Shaima about my parents, if they were coming. Shahla bit her lip and looked at the ground. I heard my husband curse my father. He was insulted, not only as a son-in-law but also as a former commander. Whatever respect he owed his father-in-law, out of tradition, was lost now. And I didn’t care.

“Oh God, Rahima- jan, ” Shahla whispered. “I can’t believe this! He was so full of light!”

I closed my eyes.

Khala Shaima looked thinner than she had the last time I’d seen her but I couldn’t bear to think on it much. She shook her head and whispered to me that the medicine had gotten the best of my parents. It was hard to tell which of them was worse than the other. She clucked her tongue in dismay and squeezed my limp hand.

“They can barely get themselves up and about in the house,” she said.

“You’re there a lot,” I said blankly.

She nodded. She was concerned about Rohila and Sitara. She had mentioned in her last visit that rumors were circulating of suitors for my younger sisters. She wanted to make sure the girls were not given away in a careless stupor.

My aunts and uncles came. Even my grandparents. I kissed their hands. They cried and made sorry excuses to my husband and mother-in-law for the notable absence of my mother and father. They were embarrassed more than anything else.

You never saw him, I wanted to scream. You didn’t know how sweet he was.

I’d never expected much from my grandparents. They’d had little to do with my sisters and me since we were married off. It was as people said. Once married, girls no longer belonged to the families that raised them. Especially if they only raised them halfway. But Madar- jan, she’d been so different once upon a time.

“She’s that bad?” I asked Khala Shaima.

“She’s that bad, dokhtar-jan, ” she said, confirming it. “Your sisters, Rohila and Sitara, they really wanted to come see you. But your grandmother didn’t think it was proper for them to come without your mother. And, of course, she wouldn’t let them come with me. Rohila cried when she heard. She wanted to hide under my burqa and sneak over here. Sitara, she’s very reserved but she’s a strong girl. You girls would be very proud of your sisters.”