Her uncles had barged into the home that day, refusing to be turned away. Now that she had been reunited with her grandmother, she could hardly blame them for their persistence. No one wanted to disappoint Bobo Shahgul. She was horrid enough when she was satisfied.
It hadn’t taken long for Shekiba’s uncles to realize that something had happened to her father. The house smelled of rot and loneliness. Shekiba had stopped sweeping the floor and had let the potato peels collect in a corner, too disinterested to take them outside. After a time, she didn’t notice the smell. But it wasn’t just the house. Shekiba had become apathetic. She hadn’t bothered to wash her dress, and for most of the winter, she had curled up in a ball under a blanket, letting her own stench fester. Daylight and warmth had inspired her to wash herself but it would take more than a few baths to undo what had become of her. Her hair was a tangled nest of lice and unbrushable for months.
Shekiba was pale and gaunt. For a moment, her uncles believed they may have been looking at a djinn, a spirit. How could living flesh look like that?
They asked for her father, their eyes scouting the room and realizing instantly that he was not there. Shekiba trembled and turned to the side, wanting to hide from them but making sure they were not approaching her. They couldn’t see her, but they could smell fear, sweat and blood. They asked again, louder, angrier.
That was when Shekiba left. She heard a scream and a blue ghost ran into the wall that had sheltered her from the view of others — the wall her father had built to guard his family. Another scream, and as she fell to the earth, hands grabbed the ghost, shocked at how easily their fingers circled bones. The ghost wanted to fight back, to run away and escape, but the men had meat on their bones. They gripped her and she let go, allowing them to roll her onto her blanket and carry her back to the family compound in much the same way that she had carried her father to his grave.
As she passed by the tree where her family lay buried, Shekiba moaned and called out to them. She tried to lift her head to see the rounded mounds of earth.
Madar. Padar. Tariq. Munis. Bulbul.
She did not see her uncles look at each other, sharing a realization that the entire family was dead, even their brother Ismail. Shekiba didn’t see them bite their tongues, hold back their tears and mutter that they should have been there to wash their brother’s body and throw dirt on his grave. Shekiba was the last survivor — the one who should not have survived. They wondered how long this girl had been living alone and shook their heads with the shame of the situation. A girl, by herself! What dishonor this could bring to their family if anyone in the village were to find out!
They laid her in the courtyard of the home while they went to notify Bobo Shahgul. Within minutes, the spry old lady stood over Shekiba, peering down through her cataract-clouded eyes to get a better look at the grandchild she could do without.
“Tell your wives to get her washed up. Warn them that her face will turn their stomachs. And tell them to feed her. We must deal with this creature now if we are to save our good name within the village. May God punish her for keeping her father from us, my son! Not even telling us when he left this world! She will pay for this.”
Bobo Shahgul proved to be a woman of her word. Since her husband had died two years ago, she had happily taken on the role of the family matriarch. She presided over her sons’ brides with her walking stick, though there was nothing at all wrong with her legs. She had earned the right to walk with her head high since she had given her husband six sons and two daughters. Now it was her turn to oversee the roost with the same iron fist she had survived.
Shekiba let herself be undressed and bathed. She found it much easier than resisting. The youngest wives were assigned the formidable task of deconstructing the beast Shekiba had become. Pails of water were brought in. Her hair was sheared, too far gone to salvage. They cursed her for the rank smells of every body recess, their nostrils seared. They put food in her mouth; someone moved her jaw, reminding her to chew.
In a few days, Shekiba’s mind returned to her body. She began to hear what people were saying; she began to notice that her belly did not ache with hunger. Her fingers reached up and felt a head scarf covering the ragged edges of her chopped hair.
I must look like one of my cousins, she thought.
Her skin was raw and reddened from the brutal baths she had been given. Her aunts had scrubbed a layer of filth from her with a washcloth too rough for her frail skin. She had some scabs, while other areas stayed red and chafed, her body too malnourished to repair minor damage. At night, she slept on a blanket in the narrow kitchen, her feet often knocking against a pot and waking her up. In the morning, she was moved into one of many rooms where she would be out of the way while the wives prepared breakfast.
I’m tired of lifting her. Get Farrah to help you. My back is aching.
You say the same thing every day! Your back, your back. Surely, it’s not from doing anything around here. What has your husband been doing to you! Tell him to go easy.
Giggling.
Shut your mouth and pick up her arms. Ugh. I am queasy enough today. I can’t stand to look at her face.
Fine, but we’ll put her in your room. My room still has her smell from yesterday and I cannot stand it.
Shekiba let herself be moved around and insulted. At least she was not being asked to participate in this existence. But that would not last. Bobo Shahgul had other plans for her.
The family home had a small kitchen where the wives all helped cook. There was one main family room where everyone sat around during the day, the children played and meals were shared. Surrounding those two main rooms were four or five other rooms, each assigned to one of Bobo Shahgul’s sons. Families slept together in one room. Only Bobo Shahgul had a room of her own.
Shekiba was on her side in her uncle’s room when she vaguely felt Bobo Shahgul’s walking stick jab into her thigh.
“Get up, you insolent girl! Enough of your nonsense. You have been asleep for over a week. You’re not going to get away with this kind of behavior in this house. God only knows what craziness your mother allowed.”
Shekiba winced. A downside to her recovery was that her body now had the energy to sense pain. Again, the stick poked into her leg. Shekiba rolled onto her side and tried to push herself back, away from her grandmother. Her head was heavy with too much sleep.
“Insolent and lazy! Just like your mother!”
There was no escape from this woman. Shekiba eased herself to a sitting position and managed to focus her eyes on her grandmother.
“Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself? Disrespectful and ungrateful. We have bathed and fed you and you can do nothing more than sit there and stare like an idiot?”
“Salaam…,” Shekiba said meekly.
“Sit up straight and watch your legs. Although you may not know it, you are a girl and you should sit like one.” Bobo Shahgul snapped her stick against her granddaughter’s arm. Shekiba flinched and straightened her back as best she could. Bobo Shahgul leaned in close. Shekiba could see her deep-set wrinkles, the yellow of her eyes.
“I want you to tell me what happened to my son.” Each syllable was punctuated by a fine spray of saliva.
Your son? Your son? Shekiba thought, her mind suddenly clear and focused. Your son was my father. When was the last time you saw him? When was the last time you bothered to send him any food, any oil? You could see him in the field. You could see the pain in his movements. Did you bother to send him anything then? All you cared about was giving him another wife, saving the family name.