The scent of cumin and garlic filled the room. Azizullah and his brother shared their meal, tearing off chunks of flatbread and picking up morsels of rice and meat. Shekiba wondered if any would be left for the rest of the family. Meat was hard to come by, even in this household, and it seemed that the men were going to finish the week’s stock in one sitting.
Her mind began to wander as she dried the pots. What would happen if she were to try to claim that land? The thought almost made her laugh. Imagine that. A young woman trying to claim her father’s land, snatching it from her uncles’ greedy claws. She tried to imagine taking the deed to the local judge. What would he say? Most likely he would kick her out. Call her insane. Maybe even send her back to her family.
But what if he didn’t? What if he listened to her? Agreed with her? Maybe he would think it was her right to have her father’s land.
Marjan was in the kitchen with her. She was sifting through the rice for any small stones.
“Khanum Marjan?” Shekiba said meekly.
“Yes?” Marjan paused and looked up. Shekiba spoke so rarely, one had to take notice.
“What happens to a daughter when her father… if her father has some land… if he is not…”
Marjan pursed her lips and cocked her head. She could sense the question buried in Shekiba’s ramblings.
“Shekiba-jan, you are asking a ridiculous question. Your father’s land will go to his family, since your brothers are dead, may Allah grant them peace.” Marjan’s response was blunt but it was reality — regardless of what the laws might say. Her candor gave Shekiba confidence to speak openly.
“But what about me? Am I not rightfully an heir to the land? I am his child too!”
“You are his daughter. You are not his son. Yes, the law says that daughters may inherit a portion of what the son would inherit but the truth is that women do not claim land. Your uncles, your father’s brothers, have no doubt taken the property.”
Shekiba let out a frustrated sigh.
“My dear girl, you are being quite ridiculous. What do you think you would do with a piece of land? First of all, you are living here now. This is your place. Secondly, you are unmarried and no woman could possibly live on a piece of land alone! That is simply absurd.”
I lived alone on that land for months. It didn’t feel absurd. It felt like home.
But Marjan could not know about her time alone. Shekiba did not dare share the details, knowing it was unspeakable for her to have done so. No reason to give the village more fodder for gossip.
“But if I were a son?” she asked, unwilling to let the matter go completely.
“If you were a son, you would inherit the land. But you are not a son and you cannot be a son and your life is now here as part of this home. You are asking questions that will invite nothing but anger. Enough!” Marjan needed to put a stop to the discussion. If her husband heard them, he would surely be displeased. If these were the kinds of thoughts that ran through her head, Marjan was thankful Shekiba did not speak more often.
But I have always been my father’s daughter-son. My father hardly knew I was a girl. I have always done the work a son would do. I am not to be considered for a wife, so what is the difference? What of me is a girl?
Shekiba gritted her teeth.
I have lived alone. I have no need for anyone.
Azizullah’s family had been relatively kind to her but Shekiba was restless. She felt freshly resentful of her family.
I cannot go on like this forever. I must find a way to make a life for myself.
CHAPTER 12. RAHIMA
Too often, I missed the opportunity to learn from Bibi Shekiba’s story. She was determined to make a life for herself and I seemed determined to unravel the one I had.
I wonder how long I would have gone on as a boy had Madar-jan not seen us on that day. Most children who were made bacha posh were changed back into girls when their monthly bleeding started but Madar-jan had let me go on, bleeding but looking like a boy. My grandmother warned her it was wrong. Next month, my mother would promise. But I was too useful to her, to my sisters, to the whole family. She couldn’t bear to give up having someone who could do for her what my father wouldn’t. And I was happy to continue playing soccer and practicing tae kwon do with Abdullah and the boys.
We didn’t have any hot pepper at home and Padar-jan liked his food spicy. Those peppers changed everything for me.
Abdullah, Ashraf, Muneer and I were coming down our small street. The boys walked with us and then continued on to go to their own homes, smaller than ours but in as poor condition. People in our neighborhood weren’t starving but we all thought twice before throwing a scrap to a stray dog. This was how it had been for years. Some days we walked lazily. Other days we were boisterous and raced each other to the tin can, to the old lady, to the house with the blue door.
Abdullah and I stayed close together. In our circle of friends, we had something different. Something a little more. His arm across my shoulder, he would lean past me and tease Ashraf. I was a bacha posh but it had gone on too long, like a guest who had grown too comfortable to leave.
It was Ashraf who had started it. He had kicked his leg up into the air, though not as high as he thought it went. We tried to tell him he could barely reach our waists but he was certain he saw his foot swoop past our faces. Muneer shook his head. He was tired of Ashraf practicing on him.
We were fans of martial arts. We’d seen some magazines with fighters in different poses, their feet higher than their heads, their arms fired forward. We wanted to be like them and flipped through the pages copying their stances.
We had fought this way before. All of us. Playfully and without giving it much thought. I had started wrapping a tight cloth around my breast buds. I didn’t want the boys to notice them or comment on them. It was awkward enough that my voice had not begun to change as theirs had. Sometimes I came away with bruises. Once, my ankle twisted in under me as I ducked a kick from Ashraf. For one week, I limped from home to school and back. I told Madar-jan I’d tripped on a rock, knowing I couldn’t tell her how it had really happened.
But it was worth it. Worth it for that moment when, inevitably, Abdullah would have me cornered, or would twist my arm behind me and I could feel his breath on my neck. Somewhere inside I tingled to be that close to him. I didn’t want him to let go, even if I could feel my arm pulling from its socket. I reached out and grabbed at his other arm, feeling his adolescent muscles flex under my fingers. When I was close enough to smell him, to smell the sweat on his neck, I felt dangerous and alive. That’s why it was often me who started the sparring. I loved where it put me.
That was what we were doing when Madar-jan came out of the neighbor’s house, a fistful of red peppers in her right hand and the corner of her chador in her left hand. It couldn’t have been worse. She spotted us just as he’d tripped my foot. I lost my balance and fell to the ground. I looked up and saw Abdullah’s handsome grin as he, victorious yet again, straddled me and laughed.
“Rahim!”
I heard my mother’s voice, sharp and horrified. I saw her faded burgundy dress out of the corner of my eye. I felt my stomach drop.
Abdullah must have seen the look on my face. He jumped to his feet and looked over at my mother. Her face confirmed that something had gone wrong. He reached his hand out to me so I could get up.