He looked over my shoulder and I could hear the air whistle through his nostrils, his belly casting a shadow over my paper. My name got no reaction, which I could take only to mean it had not severely disappointed him. Muneer’s notebook, however, made him groan.
“What is your name?” he demanded.
“M-M-Muneer.” He stole a glance upward at the teacher but quickly looked down again.
“Muneer,” he said dramatically. “If you come back to this class tomorrow and make a single mistake in your name, I’ll send you back to repeat last year’s work. Understood?”
“Yes, Moallim-sahib,” Muneer whispered. I could feel the heat from his face.
So the boys weren’t learning much more than the girls, I realized.
After class, the boys were more interested in racing outside and kicking a ball around than questioning who I was or where I’d come from. Muneer and I walked home with two boys named Ashraf and Abdullah. They were neighbors who lived a half kilometer from our family’s house. This was the first time I’d met them, though they knew Muneer and my other boy cousins.
“What’s your name again?” Ashraf asked. He was the shorter of the two and had light brown hair and round eyes. He was pretty enough to make me wonder if he was like me, a girl underneath those pants.
“My name is Rahim.”
“Yeah, his name is Rahim. He’s my cousin,” Muneer added. The teacher’s warnings had shaken him up but now that we were outside, he was breathing easier.
“Abdullah, have you ever seen Rahim before?”
Abdullah shook his head. He was dark haired, slim and calmer than his neighbor.
“No. Are you any good at soccer, Rahim?”
I stole a sidelong glance and shrugged my shoulders.
“Oh, he’s really good at soccer,” Muneer said emphatically. His reply caught me off guard. “I bet he could beat you.”
I looked at Muneer, wondering if he was trying to set me up.
“Oh, yeah?” Abdullah grinned. “Well, he doesn’t have to beat me but it would help if he could beat Said Jawad and his friends. They’re probably over in the street playing if you want to join them.”
“Yeah, let’s do it!” Muneer picked up his pace and headed down the side street that led to the makeshift field and away from our house. The field was actually an unused side street, too narrow for a car. The boys were accustomed to meeting there for pickup games.
“Muneer, don’t you think we should—”
“C’mon, Rahim. Just for a little while! It’ll be fun,” Abdullah said, giving my shoulder a light shove.
I suppose I could have been worse. The only thing I knew how to do was to run. Luckily, I did that well enough that the boys didn’t notice that my foot never made contact with the ball or that I never shouted for the ball to be passed to me. I ran up and down the street, my shoulders scraping the clay wall of the alley. I kept expecting my mother or father to appear and drag me back home angrily.
I liked feeling the breeze on my face. I liked feeling my legs stretch, trying to catch the others, trying to race ahead of them. My arms swung by my sides, free.
“Over here! Pass it over here!”
“Don’t let him get by! Catch him!”
I neared the ball. There were six feet kicking at it, trying to knock it back in their direction. I stuck my foot into the melee. I felt the leather against my sole. I kicked at it, sending it flying in Abdullah’s direction. He stopped the ball with his heel and nudged it toward the opposite goal. He was running.
I felt a thrill as I chased after him. I liked being part of the team. I liked the dust kicking up under my feet.
I liked being a boy.
CHAPTER 8
SHEKIBA
QUICKLY, MOST OF THE HOUSEHOLD WORK was turned over to Shekiba. Her uncles’ wives found that, once she’d recovered, she was quite capable and could manage even the chores that required the combined strength of two women. She could balance three pails of water, instead of just two. She could lift the wood into the stove. They whispered happily to each other when Bobo Shahgul was not listening, not wanting to appear lazy to the matriarch.
She has the strength of a man, but she does the chores of a woman. Could there be any better help for the house? Now we know what it must feel like to live like Bobo Shahgul!
Shekiba heard their comments but it was in her nature to work. She found that sunset came faster if she busied herself, no matter how laborious the task. Her back ached at the end of the day, but she did not let her face show it. She did not want to give them the satisfaction of exhausting her. Nor did she want to risk a beating for not being able to keep up with her work. In this home, there were many ready sticks to teach her that indolence would not be tolerated.
Khala Zarmina, Kaka Freidun’s wife, was the worst. Her thick hands came down with a surprising strength even though she claimed to be too old and tired to do any of the more cumbersome tasks in the house. Her temper was short and she seemed to be poised to take Bobo Shahgul’s place when Allah finally decided to reclaim the bitter old woman. Bobo Shahgul realized as much and could see through her false flattery but she tolerated it, keeping Zarmina in line with an occasional berating in front of the others.
Khala Samina was by far the mildest. She was wife to Bobo Shahgul’s youngest living son, Kaka Zelmai. It took about a week for Shekiba to realize that Samina scolded or hit her only in the presence of the other daughters-in-law. When she raised her hand, Shekiba braced herself. Unnecessarily, she realized. Samina put no more weight into her blows than she would to swat a fly.
She doesn’t want to look weak, Shekiba thought. But now I know she is.
Shekiba kept to herself, did the work assigned to her and tried to avoid eye contact. She did nothing to invite conversation, although she did provide a good topic for discussions in the house. Summer was a few weeks away when Bobo Shahgul interrupted her scrubbing the floor. Kaka Freidun stood beside her, arms crossed.
Shekiba instinctively pulled her head scarf across her face and turned her shoulders to face the wall.
“Shekiba, when you have finished with cleaning this floor, you are to go into the field and help your uncles with the harvest. I’m sure you will appreciate a chance to get fresh air outside and it seems you are experienced with this kind of work.”
“But I still have to prepare the—”
“Then prepare it quickly and get outside. It is about time you helped to grow the food that has fattened your face.”
Kaka Freidun smirked in agreement. This was all his idea. He had watched Ismail’s land reap a harvest that most others would have thought impossible given last season’s pitiful rainfall. It occurred to him that his brother’s daughter-son may have inherited his instincts with the earth. Why not make use of her? After all, there were plenty of women to do the housework. Bobo Shahgul had agreed readily. The clan was in need of a good harvest. There were many mouths to feed and for the first time in years, their debts were growing.
Shekiba nodded, knowing that the new assignment would not mean a relief from her current ones. Her days would be longer. Khala Zarmina was especially angry about the new arrangement but she dared not contest Bobo Shahgul.
“There is more to be done here in the house! Bobo Shahgul has forgotten what it means to take care of the cooking and cleaning. I’ve left a pile of clothes in need of hemming and darning for Shekiba-e-shola but I suppose that will all have to wait if she is going to be out in the field during the day. She had better wake up earlier if she’s going to get lunch ready too.”
The family had quickly embraced her nickname. In Afghanistan, disabilities defined people. There were many others in the village who had such names. Mariam-e-lang, who had walked with a limp since childhood. Saboor-e-yek dista was born with one hand. And if you don’t listen to your father, your hand will fall off just like his, mothers used to warn their sons. Jowshan-e-siyaa, or the black, for his dark complexion. Bashir-e-koor, the blind, had lost most of
his sight in his thirties and despised the children who laughed at his stumbling gait. He knew, too, that their parents joined in the snickers.
Shekiba dried the floor hastily and tightened her head scarf under her chin. She went outside and saw that her uncles were taking a break, leaning against the outside wall and drinking tea that her cousin Hameed had brought out to them. Shekiba turned to assess the progress they had made.
From this side of the house she could see her home. It looked small in comparison to the clan’s house.
This is how it felt to watch us.
She noticed that there were new pieces of equipment in their field and that her father’s tools had been carted over to this side of the land. The house had been emptied. A pile of their belongings lay outside the wall her father had built.
They’re taking my home. They wanted our land.
Suddenly, Shekiba realized why it was that Bobo Shahgul had summoned her youngest son after so much time. Her father was tilling the most fertile land the family had and they wanted it. They wanted more than the share of crops he sent over from time to time. They wanted it all. Now there was no one in their way. They were taking her home.
Shekiba thought she would feel nothing but inside, she seethed. No one had thought of her when the house’s contents were thrown outside for trash. The few remaining items that had belonged to her mother, her father, her siblings all tossed aside to make way for something new. Was someone going to move into her home? Shekiba realized part of her was still hoping to return to that home, to live there independently as she had before. But, of course, that would never happen.
Shekiba found a container and walked into the field. There was much to be harvested. The onion plants had long yellow leaves and had probably dried up about three weeks ago, given their appearance.
Why haven’t they pulled these onions out? Shekiba thought, and leaned over to get a closer look.
“Hey, Freidun! Look what she’s doing! Tell her not to touch the onions! They aren’t ready yet! This imbecile is going to ruin our lot!” It was Kaka Sheeragha, the skinniest and laziest of the group.
The leaves were brittle in her fingertips. She reached at the base and began to pull the bulbs from the earth.
Almost too late. They’re about to rot. No wonder our food tastes the way it does. God knows what they’re doing with the rest of the crops.
Kaka Freidun walked over and looked at the three onions she had already unearthed. Shekiba did not turn to look at him. He grunted something and then walked away.
“You didn’t say anything to her?” Sheeragha yelled out.
“Enough,” Freidun answered. “They’re ready.”
Sheeragha looked at his elder brother and bit his tongue. The men returned to the fields and grunted instructions at each other. They kept a distance from Shekiba but watched her from the corners of their eyes. She moved nimbly through the rows, her callused fingers weaving between the stems and yanking with just the amount of force needed to bring the bulb to the surface. She stopped only to readjust her head scarf.
But when she had finished one square area, the sun was beginning to set and it was time to prepare dinner. Shekiba resumed her post in the kitchen and was dismayed, but not surprised, to see that nothing had been done for the evening dinner. She quickly started a flame and set some water to boil. Khala Zarmina walked past her and peered into the dim room.
“Oh, there you are! I was just about to boil some rice for dinner but I see that you’re here now. I’ll leave it up to you, then. I just hope you’ll clean your hands well—they’re filthy.”
Shekiba waited till Zarmina had walked away to let out a heavy sigh. How she wished she would have died on the cold floor of her own home, before her uncles had found her.
JUMAA PRAYERS HAD JUST ENDED. Her uncles were returning home from the small masjid in town.
“Children, outside. We are speaking with your grandmother,” Kaka Freidun snapped. Shekiba watched her cousins scamper out of the main living room. Kaka Sheeragha looked at her and seemed to be considering something. He followed his brothers into the living room.
Shekiba pretended to walk back into the kitchen with the clothes she had gathered from the clothesline. Before she reached the kitchen, she stopped and sat on the floor to fold the clothes. From there, she could hear some of what her uncles were saying.
“We need to settle this debt. Azizullah is losing patience with us. He says he’s waited long enough.”
“Hmm. What exactly were his demands?”
“I spoke with him in the village two weeks ago and he told me that he is in need of a wife for his son. He wants one of the girls from this family.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Well, he said that there is a debt to settle. And that he was thinking of it more these days because he wants to secure a wife for his son.”
“I see.” Bobo Shahgul’s voice was sharp, matter-of-fact. “How old is his son?”
“His son is ten.”
“He still has time.”
“Yes, but he wants to arrange the matter now.”
I could hear Bobo Shahgul tapping her walking stick on the floor in thought.
“Then we need to arrange a deal with him.”
“Zalmai, your girls are the right age. Maybe one of them. The older one. She’s eight, isn’t she?” Kaka Freidun’s voice was unmistakable.
“Sheeragha’s daughter is the same age. And your daughter is the same age as Azizullah’s son. She would be a good match as well and would settle our debts sufficiently.”
“Freidun’s got more girls than anyone. It makes sense to give one of—”
“I don’t think it is necessary to send one of the girls.”
There was a pause as Bobo Shahgul’s sons waited for her to explain.
“We will offer Shekiba.”
I am not one of the girls.
“Shekiba-e-shola? Are you joking? He’ll take one look at her and come after us demanding twice what we owe! To offer Shekiba will offend him, for sure!”
Shekiba closed her eyes and pressed the back of her head against the wall.
Your name means “gift,” my daughter. You are a gift from Allah.
“Zalmai, I want you to speak to Azizullah and tell him that his son is still young. God willing, he and his father have long lives ahead of them with plenty of time to arrange for a suitable marriage. Tell him it would be more useful for them to have someone who can help them at home now. Tell him a happy wife bears more sons. Then you can offer Shekiba.”
“But what if he says no?”
“He won’t. Just be sure to tell him that she is very capable. That she has the back of a young man and can manage a household. She is a reasonable cook and she keeps quiet, now that she’s been tamed. Tell him that it is an honorable thing to take in an orphan and that Allah will reward him for bringing her into his home. She will be like a second wife without the price.”
“And what about the work she’s doing here? Who will do that?”
“The same lazy women who were doing it before Shekiba came here!” Bobo Shahgul snapped. “Your wives have been spoiled. They have taken to lying about, drinking tea and making my ears ache with their chatter. It will be good for them to get back on their feet. This is a home, not the royal palace.”
The brothers grunted. Would Azizullah really take the offer? they wondered. Better to try than to argue on whose daughter would be given as a bride otherwise.
“Say nothing to your wives now. No need to go stirring the henhouse yet. First let us discuss matters with Azizullah.”
Shekiba picked herself up from the floor and hurried into the kitchen before her uncles emerged. She couldn’t help but be thankful her parents were not alive to hear this conversation. She felt a tear well in her right eye.
That is the problem with gifts, Madar-jan. They are always given away.
CHAPTER 9
SHEKIBA
AZIZULLAH TOOK THE DEAL.
; Shekiba-e-shola packed her two dresses.
“Do not do anything that will bring shame to this family.” Her grandmother’s farewell to her was unceremonious.
Shekiba did something she never thought she would do. She lifted her burqa from her face and spat at her grandmother’s wrinkled feet. A wad of saliva landed on her walking stick.
“My father was right to run from you.”
Bobo Shahgul’s mouth gaped as Shekiba turned and began walking toward her uncle, who was to escort her to Azizullah’s home.
She knew it was coming but she did not care.
She also knew Khala Zarmina was watching. And smiling.
The walking stick came down on her shoulders twice before her Kaka Zalmai raised a hand to block his mother’s revenge.
“Enough, Madar-jan, I cannot take the beast to Azizullah crippled. Her face is bad enough. If he sees her hobbling surely he will turn us down. Let Allah punish her for her insolence.”
Shekiba kept her shoulders up and did not falter. She did not know what lay ahead for her but she knew she could not return to this home. She had closed this door for sure.
“You wretched creature! Allah in all His wisdom has marked your face as a warning to all! There is a monster within! Ungrateful, just like your despicable mother! Do you ever wonder why your entire family is gone, buried under the ground? It is you! You are cursed!”
Shekiba felt something rise within her. She turned slowly and lifted her burqa again.
“Yes, I am!” Shekiba smirked and pointed a finger at her grandmother. “And with Allah as my witness, I curse you, Grandmother! May demons haunt your dreams, may your bones shatter as you walk and may your last breaths be painful and bloody!”
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