“He was my father.” Shekiba left the rest unsaid.
“Your father? And a lot of good that did him! He could have had a decent life. He could have had a wife to look after him, to bear him sons who would grow our clan and work on our land. But you did your very best to keep him secluded, trapped with such a wild creature as yourself that no one would want to come near you or him! First your mother, then you! You killed my son!”
Her stick jabbed Shekiba’s breastbone.
“Where is he? What did you do with him?”
“He is with my mother. He is with my brothers and my sister. They are all there together, waiting for me.”
Bobo Shahgul fumed at Shekiba’s detachment. As she suspected, her son had been buried without her knowledge. Her eyes swelled with rage.
“Waiting for you, eh? Maybe God will see fit that your time come soon,” she hissed.
If only, Shekiba thought.
“Zarmina! Come and get this girl! She is to help you with the chores around the house. It is time for her to start earning her stay here. She has caused this family enough grief and she needs to start making up for it.”
Zarmina was married to Shekiba’s oldest uncle. She had the strength of a mule and the face of one too. Shekiba guessed she was the one who had scrubbed her skin raw. Zarmina walked into the room, wiping her hands on a rag.
“Ahhh, so finally we can stop waiting on this girl hand and foot! About time. God has no use for the lazy. Get up and get into the kitchen. You can start peeling the potatoes. There is much to be done.”
This was the beginning of a new phase in Shekiba’s life. She was no stranger to hard work, to lifting and peeling, to scrubbing and hauling. She was assigned the least desirable chores in the house and accepted them without argument. Bobo Shahgul wanted her to pay for her father’s death. She made this clear every day, sometimes calling out his name and clucking her tongue.
She would even wail and lament the tragedy of his death.
“He was taken too young. How could he have left his mother to grieve him? How could such a thing happen to our family? Have we not prayed enough? Have we not followed God’s word? Oh, my dear son! How could this have happened to you?”
Her daughters-in-law would sit at her side, plead with her to be strong and tell her that Allah would care for him since his own family had not. They would fan her and warn her that she would make herself ill with all this grief. But Bobo Shahgul’s sobbing came without tears and turned off just as easily as it turned on. Shekiba continued with the task of brushing the rug. She did not bother to look up.
What happened to you? We heard that they call you shola-face. Did you put shola on your face?
Her cousins asked the same question over and over again. Shekiba ignored them for the most part. Sometimes people answered for her.
She did not listen to her mother and that’s what happened to her. Did you understand what I said? So you had better pay attention to what I say or your face will turn just as hideous as hers!
Shekiba became a very useful instrument for discipline in the house.
Look at what you’ve done! Clean this up or you will be sleeping with Shekiba tonight!
There was no end.
God has punished Shekiba. That is why she has no mother or father. Now go wash for prayers or else God will do the same to you.
CHAPTER 7. RAHIMA
Madar-jan kept me at home for a couple of weeks, wanting me to get used to the idea of being a boy before she let me test the waters outside of our home. She corrected my sisters when they called me Rahima and did the same with my younger cousins who had never before seen a bacha posh. They ran into their houses to report the news to their mothers, who smirked. Each had given her husband at least two sons to carry on the family name. They didn’t need to make any of their daughters a bacha posh.
But Madar-jan ignored their looks and went about her chores. Bibi-jan hated that anyone in her family was forced to resort to the bacha posh tradition.
“We needed a son in the house, Khala-jan.”
“Hmmph. Would be better if you could just have one as the others did.”
Madar-jan bit her tongue for the thousandth time.
Padar-jan barely seemed to notice the change. He had been gone for a couple of days and came home exhausted. He sat in the living room and opened an envelope of small pellets. He squeezed them between his fingers and sprinkled the mix into a cigarette casing. He lit one end and sucked on it deeply. Thick, sweet smoke twisted around his face and wrapped around his head. My sisters and I came in from outside to find him sitting there. We stopped short and said hello, our heads bowed.
He looked at us and inhaled deeply. He squinted through the smoke as he noticed that something was different about his three daughters.
“So she’s done it then.” And that was all he said about the matter.
Khala Shaima was the reassuring voice that Madar-jan needed to hear.
“Raisa, what else were you going to do? Your husband is delirious half the time and of no use to you. You can’t send the girls to school or even to the market because you’re afraid of what will happen. Your in-laws are all too busy talking about each other to help you out. This is your only option. Besides, it’ll be better for her, you’ll see. What can a girl do in this world, anyway? Rahim will appreciate what you’ve done for him.”
“But my in-laws, I—”
“Forget them! The person who doesn’t appreciate the apple doesn’t appreciate the orchard. You’ll never please them. The sooner you figure that out the better off you’ll be.”
My first errand as a boy was an exciting one. I was to go to the market for oil and flour. Madar-jan nervously handed me a few bills and watched me walk down the street. My sisters poked their faces around either side of her skirt trying to get a look as well. I kept glancing over my shoulder and waved at Madar-jan cheerfully, trying to inspire a little confidence in both of us that I could pull this off.
The streets were lined with shops. Copper pots. Baby clothes. Sacks of rice and dried beans. Colorful flags hung from front doors. The shops were two levels, with balconies on the second floor where men sat back and watched the comings and goings of their neighbors. None of the men walked with any urgency. The women, on the other hand, moved purposefully and carefully.
I stepped into the first shop I recognized, a large sign overhead announcing the arrival of a new cooking oil.
“Agha-sahib, how much for a kilo of flour?” I asked, remembering to keep my shoulders straight. I couldn’t quite bring myself to look the man in the eye so I kept shifting my gaze to the tin cans he had stocked on the shelf behind him.
“Fifteen thousand afghanis,” he said, barely looking up. Not too long ago, a kilo of flour had cost forty afghanis. But money was worthless now that everyone had bags of it.
I bit my lip. This was double what I had seen him charge my mother, which she complained was already too much. I wasn’t surprised. I had come to this same man twice before when my mother had reluctantly sent me out to the market and I had been able to bargain him down to half of what he originally demanded.