Nadia Hashimi - The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

Forty days after Jahangir’s last breath, the house was still. It was the final day of mourning.

“The forty days will be complete today,” Bibi Gulalai reminded us. “People may come to say prayers with us or with Abdul Khaliq. Watch how you talk.”

Shahnaz bit her lip and went to bathe her children. She kept her distance and, more important, made sure her children stayed clear of me. I made her nervous, as the mother of a dead child. Maybe I was cursed. Or maybe I would be jealous that her little ones were alive and my son was dead.

Forty days. What was so magical about forty? I wondered. Was I to feel differently today than I did yesterday? Was I to forget what happened just six weeks ago?

We Afghans marked both life and death with a forty-day period, as if we needed that much time to confirm either had truly happened. We had celebrated Jahangir’s birth forty days after he’d left my womb, unsure if this child was here with us to stay. And now his death. Forty days of praying, alone, with others and everything in between.

“It’s been forty days, Rahima,” Badriya reminded me.

“And tomorrow will be forty-one,” I shot back. Nothing would change.

But something did change. For forty days, Abdul Khaliq had kept to himself, sitting with the many men who came to pay their respects and read with him. He didn’t look at me much. If we had been a different husband and wife, I might have approached him. I might have asked him about our son’s last breaths, about how he was feeling now. I was thankful that he’d been good to our son in his last moments but nothing more. Now, more than ever, I wanted nothing to do with him.

On the forty-first day, the house breathed a sigh of relief. Badriya and her children no longer spoke in hushed voices. Jahangir had been given his due period of respect.

Abdul Khaliq called for me that night. With a heavy step, I went to him. He was standing by the window, his back to me. I knew I should have closed the door behind me, but I did not. I hoped I wouldn’t have to stay.

“Close the door,” he said, his back still turned. His voice was firm, a warning buried in his tone.

I obeyed.

“Come closer.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run far from him, from the scent that lingered behind his beard, from his rough hands, from the disdain in his eye.

Haven’t I suffered enough? I wanted to yell.

He turned around and looked at me, reading the reluctance in my face. He took another step, now within reach. I sighed and turned my head away, staring at the floor.

A slap thundered across my cheek. My knees buckled.

“No wife of mine looks at me in that way! How dare you?”

My eyes watered from the stinging blow. He was angry still. His fingers gripped my arm so tight I thought my bones might snap.

“I didn’t — I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He tossed me to the floor. My right knee hit the ground first.

“Worthless! You’ve been good for nothing since you came here! A waste. A waste of my money, my time. Look at you! A big mistake for me to take you. I should have listened to what others said but I pitied your father. He suckered me, that rat! Made me believe his girls would make decent wives. Look what’s happened! One worse than the other.”

He was in a rage. Nothing he hadn’t before said or done, but there was a renewed enthusiasm in his vitriol. He swung again as I pulled on the edge of the bed to stand.

“A bacha posh . I should have known better. You still don’t know what it is to be a woman.”

I felt a trickle of blood from my lip and realized I should have anticipated this. I steeled myself for what I knew was coming. The blow that would shatter me. True or untrue, I didn’t want to hear him say it.

“Hard to believe you could be even worse as a mother than you are as a wife! My son deserved better! He would be alive if he’d had a mother better than you!”

I closed my eyes, a surge of pain. The worst blow. I crumpled to the floor with my hands over my head. I crouched forward, almost as if praying. He was muttering something. I couldn’t hear him over my own sobbing.

“Do you want to be a boy? Maybe that’s what you want! Is that what you want?”

My ribs.

“My mother couldn’t make a woman out of you. Then maybe you should go back to what you were! That’s what you want?”

I never saw where it came from. Maybe under his pillow. Or maybe in his jacket pocket. In a flash, Abdul Khaliq grabbed my hair and pulled my head off the ground. My head slipped forward. He snatched again and jerked my head up. My scalp screamed. When I saw locks of hair on the floor around me, I realized what he was doing. I tried to pull away, begged him to stop, but he was barely there. He was trying to take me apart, to disassemble the pieces that were hardly holding together as it was.

More hair on the ground. I tried to crawl away but his grip was tight. I shrieked as I felt my scalp lift off my skull.

“Please,” I begged. “Please stop! You don’t know!”

He had taken a knife to my hair, a blade I’d seen him tuck into his waistband before he and his guards went off for his meetings. The blade was dull and he had to chop at my hair again and again, holding it taut by the ends.

“One child! You’ve brought only one child and you couldn’t even take care of him!” My stomach lurched.

One child. One child.

I wanted to let him end my misery, to give me the punishment my heart believed I deserved, those dark, dark thoughts that haunted my days and nights. I wished he could end it for me. Maybe I would have even taunted him, if it weren’t for…

He was on the edge of his bed, his breaths slowing. My husband lacked the endurance to exact the punishment he intended.

I lay motionless, curled up on my side at the foot of the bed. I waited for the signal.

“Get out,” he hissed. “I can’t stand the sight of you.”

I crawled to the door, then pulled myself to stand by the chair. I heard footsteps scamper in the hallway as I exited. I held one hand over my throbbing belly and one hand on the wall to steady my slow step.

One child.

In my room, I waited. It didn’t hurt as much as it should have, maybe because my mind was elsewhere. Into the thin light of morning, I waited for the bleeding to come. I knew it would.

Fresh tears for a new loss.

I may have killed one of Abdul Khaliq’s children. But he had just killed another.

“Do you want to go or don’t you?”

I sighed and stared at my feet. My arches ached but it was too much effort to rub them.

“It’s up to you. I can always find someone else to be my assistant if you don’t want to do it anymore. I’m sure the director’s office can help me. Someone else can do what you were doing.”

This was actually her way of trying to be considerate.

“Look, I don’t care either way…”

This wasn’t true and we both knew it.

“I’m just telling you, you need to make a decision soon because I’m leaving to go back to Kabul in three days and if you’re going to go back then we have to let Abdul Khaliq know.”

Badriya had grown accustomed to my help. With me, the parliamentary sessions were easier to follow. I read all the briefs to her. I filled out and submitted all her documents. She listened as I went through the newspaper headlines to give her some background for the jirga discussions. She finally felt like she was participating in the process, like she was a woman our province should admire for her role in government. As if she were actually serving her constituency.